Stack 

Annex 

PS 

3523 

L8555w 


.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  AHGELES 


cn- 
0*0-- 


OR 

WHAT  HAPPENS  WHEN  ONE  LOVES  ONE'S  ENEMY 


BY 

JOHN  LUTHER  LONG 

Author  of 

MADAME  BUTTERFLY 
THE  FOX-WOMAN,  ETC  ,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 

N.  C.  WYETH 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1913 
THE  BOBBS-MERMLL  COMPANY 


BHAUNWORTH    A    CO- 
BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINT1 
BROOKLYN.    N.    ». 


To  him  who  loves  the  woman- 
Who  loves  some  one  else. 
)  to  the  woman! 


2131072 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I    WHEN  DAVID  AND  JONATHAN  FISHED      .       .  1 
II    WHAT     THE     TENTH     SHELL     AT     SUMTER 

CAUSED 11 

III  WHAT  WAS  GOING  ON  IN  VIRGINIA  ...  16 

IV  IN  LINCOLN'S  PEN        ......  20 

V    ABOUT  THE  LOVE  GAME 25 

*  VI     UNDER  THE  PLUM  TREES 43 

VII    \VHO  WAS  LUCAS  MALLORY?     ....  57 

VIII    DAVE 66 

IX    WHEN  EVELYN  CAME 76 

X    THE  PICNIC 83 

XI    OF  THE  CHANGE  WHICH  DAVE  BROUGHT        .  96 

XII    DAVE'S  BUSINESS 106 

XIII  WERE   THERE  UNIONS  OR   CONFEDERATES   IN 

HARG'S  WOODS? 124 

XIV  BETSY'S  PIES  AGAIN 129 

XV    WHAT  WAS  THE  TAPESTRY  OF  PENELOPE?      .  136 

XVI    EVELYN'S  SPOOL 148 

XVII    C.  S.  A 153 

XVIII    WHAT  Is  GREATER  THAN  PATRIOTISM?    .       .  163 

XIX    WHAT    JONATHAN    FOUND    TO    TAKE    HER 

PLACE 173 

XX    MORE  MYSTERY 192 

XXI    THE  FRENZY  OF  EVELYN 198 

XXII    THE     WEDDING     MARCH — To     THE     PUMP 

TROUGH  213 


CONTENTS—  Continued 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

XXIII  LUCAS  MALLORY— AT  LAST 220 

XXIV  A  FAVOR  TO  SHOOT  HER 224 

XXV  ORDER  NUMBER  249 238 

XXVI  TANKOO 243 

XXVIT  His  SHARE  OF  GLORY 255 

XXVIII  WHERE  OUR  CLUB  MET 260 

XXIX  THE  LAST  DAY 271 

XXX  THE  SACRIFICE 280 

XXXI  THE  COST— WHO  PAYS 289 

XXXII  ON  DAVE'S  BED      .......  307 

XXXIII  To  THE  FRONT 314 

XXXIV  THE  PITY  OF  IT 330 

XXXV  HOME,  SWEET  HOME 339 

XXXVI  As  GRASS  OF  THE  FIELD 350 

XXXVII  THE  LETTER  DAVE  WROTE 354 

XXXVIII  PEACE 361 

XXXIX  AJTKB  IHB  STORY  364 


MY  oldest  boy's  name  was  Jonathan, 
and  the  youngest  David — though  they 
weren't  called  that  anywhere  but  in  the  family 
Bible — just  Jon  and  Dave.  Except  when  peo 
ple  got  the  Bible  and  the  boys  mixed  up  and 
called  them  David  and  Jonathan — sometimes 
David  and  Goliath! 

Jon  was  the  oldest  and  Dave  the  youngest 
•and  there  was  four  years  between.  Jon  didn't 
seem  to  care  much  for  anybody  else  after  Dave 
was  born,  and  Dave  never  inquired  if  he  had 
any  parents — as  long  as  Jon  took  charge  of 
him.  Well — I  have  to  acknowledge  that  Jon 
made  a  better  daddy  to  Dave  than  I  did.  Dave's 
i 


WAR 

mother  died  when  he  was  born  and  I  took  it 
hard.  Didn't  notice,  like  I  ought,  what  was  go 
ing  on.  But  Jonathan  took  entire  charge  of 
Dave.  He'd  carry  the  little  chap,  before  he  yet 
could  walk,  a  couple  of  miles  on  his  back  and  fix 
him  fast  in  the  fork  of  a  tree  while  he  fished. 
And  when  they  got  home  he'd  swear  that  Dave 
had  caught  all  the  fish.  And  they'd  all  have  to 
be  cooked — minnies  just  an  inch  long,  some 
times! — which  always  made  a  fuss  between 
Jon  and  Betsy,  the  cook. 

Yes,  Jon  was  a  good  fisherman,  and  a 
good  boss.  He  always  got  his  way.  But  it 
was  by  gentleness.  He  used  to  preach  to  me, 
his  own  daddy,  when  he  got  older,  about  gen 
tleness  being  stronger  than  anger,  because,  I 
suppose,  I  used  to  break  glass  when  I  got  mad. 

Only  one  ever  got  away  with  Jon's  gen 
tleness  by  kicking,  and  that  was  little  Dave. 
Why,  when  he  grew  old  enough  to  fish  him 
self,  he  never  caught  a  thing  and  he  ruined 
Jon's  reputation  as  a  fisherman.  He  couldn't 
keep  quiet  a  minute!  He'd  sing  songs  and 
2 


DAVID    AND    JONATHAN 

tumble  summersets  and  scare  the  fish  away 
and  get  tangled  in  the  lines — sometimes  come 
home  crying  with  the  hooks  in  him.  Jon  used 
to  call  him  the  King.  But  I  called  him  Parlia 
ment.  I  expect  he  was  both. 

Always,  on  the  farm,  one  went  to  college  to 
Irfarn  and  the  rest  stayed  at  home  to  work — if 
there  was  more  than  one  son  in  the  family,  as 
there  always  was.  So  it  was  since  seventeen 
hundred  and  ten — when  we  first  got  the  farm 
— so  it  was  with  my  brother  Henry,  Evelyn's 
stepfather  and  me,  and  so  it  had  to  be  with 
my  sons  Jonathan  and  David.  Germans  like  to 
obey  the  ways  of  their  ancestors  from  genera 
tion  to  generation. 

It  was  decided  by  lot,  and  begun  way  back 
when  they  used  to  leave  everything  to  the  Lord. 
Mostly,  they'd  put  a  hoe  and  a  Bible  on  the 
floor  and  let  us  boy-babies  crawl  for  'em.  If 
we  took  the  hoe  we  were  to  be  farmers.  If 
we  took  the  Bible  we  were  to  be  students.  The 
Bible  was  nice  red  morocco  and  gold,  and  the 
hoe  was  kept  bright  and  shiny,  and  both  had 
3 


WAR 

come  straight  down  from  the  ancestor  who  got 
the  farm  in  seventeen-ten. 

The  first  born  had  always  the  first  choice, 
and  so,  when  it  was  between  my  brother  Henry 
and  me,  I  crawled  and  took  the  hoe  —  which,  I 
seem  to  remember,  looked  so  nice  and  shiny. 
I'm  fond  of  shiny  things  now,  yet.  Of  course, 
Henry  had  to  take  the  red  Bible,  there  wasn't 
anything  else.  That's  how  it  come  that  I 
stayed  at  home,  which  was  literary,  I  expect, 
and  Henry  went  to  Virginia,  to  college,  which 
never  liked  four  walls  about  him.  Anyhow, 
he  learned  nothing  the  first  year  except 

"Ich  Hebe, 
Du  liebst, 
Wir 


and  the  second  year  was  married  to  Evelyn's 
mother  already,  a  widow  with  a  child  !  which 
he  met  when  his  class  went  on  its  annual  tramp 
from  Virginia  to  Tennessee.  He  never  even 
came  home  —  he  was  so  in  love  with  Evelyn's 
mother  —  but  went  and  lived  in  Tennessee, 
4 


DAVID    AND   JONATHAN 

because  she  wanted  him  to,  with  niggers  and 
a  plantation,  and  spent  more  money  breeding 
funny  horses  than  my  daddy  and  me  could 
squeeze  out  of  the  old  farm  to  keep  him — in 
cluding  chickens,  butter,  eggs,  and  milk. 

My  Jon  and  his  Uncle  Henry  were  both 
b^Drn  in  the  Unter  Gehenda,  that  is  the  under 
going  of  the  moon,  which  is  a  bad  time  to  be 
born,  and  sad  and  gloomy  and  unlucky.  But 
Dave  and  me  was  born  in  the  Uber  Gehenda, 
the  over-going  of  the  moon,  which  is  happy 
and  joyous.  So,  you  can  see  how  the  signs 
fool  us  sometimes. 

When  it  came  to  deciding  which  was  to  go 
to  college  of  my  two  boys,  Jon,  of  course, 
being  the  oldest,  crawled  first  and  took  the 
shiny  hoe,  like  me,  because  it  was  shiny,  I  ex 
pect,  and  Dave  was  not  only  satisfied  with  the 
red  Bible,  but  chewed  the  edges  till  he  got  colic. 
But  the  signs  were  no  more  right  with  Jon  and 
Dave  than  they  had  been  with  Henry  and  me. 
Dave  didn't  care  anything  about  college  when 
he  grew  up,  and  Jon  took  all  the  learning  he 
5 


WAR 

could  gether  up — mostly  by  himself  in  fence 
corners — and  wanted  more. 

Even  when  he  minded  the  cows  I  used  to  see 
him  sit  under  the  trees  and  books  come  out 
of  his  pocket  and  his  nose  go  into  'em  forget 
ful. 

That's  how  we  came  to  lose  Shalom — she 
was  a  cow.  While  Jon's  nose  was  in  a  book 
Shalom's  nose  was  fooling  with  a  blast 
Swartz's  men  had  set  in  the  quarry,  which 
went  off  before  she  stopped.  Jon  was  sorry 
for  Shalom  and  got  the  pieces  and  gave  them 
decent  burial  and  put  up  a  wooden  tombstone. 
She  was  the  only  cow  living  which  ever  came 
to  misfortune  through  Jon.  And  it  always 
worried  him.  He  was  crazy  about  not  kill 
ing  things.  He  used  to  say  that  only  One 
could  take  life :  Him  that  gave  it.  He  wouldn't 
kill  a  fly.  And  that  used  to  aggravate  me. 
For  they  were  mighty  plenty  on  the  old  farm. 
Sometimes  he'd  catch  a  handful  and  put  'em 
out  of  doors — but  the  rest  stayed  with  us — on 
account  of  Jonthy. 

6 


DAVID    AND   JONATHAN 

Of  course,  when  he  grew  up  more,  he  mind 
ed  his  farming  business  more.  But  it  wasn't 
as  easy  as  sleeping  in  church.  He  had  to  keep 
a  memorandum-book  with  the  hour  for  each 
part  of  the  day's  work.  Though  he  had  a  good 
eye  and  a  good  hand  when  he  got  at  it!  No 
onp  in  the  township  could  drive  a  straighter 
furrow!  And  he  could  cradle  a  ten-acre  field 
of  wheat  without  dropping  a  dozen  heads — 
and  so  the  stubbles  looked  like  yellow  plush 
afterward — so  nice  and  even!  He  never  neg 
lected  anything — after  the  death  of  Shalom — 
by  the  help  of  the  memorandum-book. 

To  think  about  Dave  having  a  memoran 
dum-book,  or  bothering  with  "duty"  makes  me 
laugh  now ! 

Maybe  his  chewing  that  red  Bible  had 
something  to  do  with  it.  For  he  always  liked 
red  things — color — warmth — snap.  It  was  all 
joy  with  Dave.  Fishing — swimming — fight 
ing  black-head  bumble-bees — making  uncom 
fortable  "harness"  for  the  dog  Wasser — and 
so  on.  Why,  he  drove  the  poor  old  dog  away 
7 


from  home,  pestering  him  with  his  wagons 
and  harnesses.  Jon  was  scared  stiff.  He 
thought  now  Dave  had  a  death  on  his  con 
science,  like  he  had,  about  Shalom.  He  had  an 
idea  that  no  one  could  live  without  Dave,  and 
that,  therefore,  Wasser  had  committed  suicide 
—maybe,  by  drowning.  He  looks  all  over  for 
the  dog  for  three  days,  and  Dave  doesn't 
bother  his  head  about  him. 

Then,  when  Jon  was  half  crazy,  Dave  goes 
off  and  finds  Wasser  in  five  minutes — hid 
ing  in  the  haymow  where  he  could  see  Dave 
without  danger.  I  don't  know  how  Dave  knew 
it,  or  Wasser  got  there,  but  he  went  straight  to 
the  spot. 

Then  he  brings  Wasser  home  on  his  shoul 
der,  both  as  pleased  as  a  bride  and  groom,  and 
licking  each  other! 

And,  that's  Dave  for  you!  Never  bother 
ing  till  some  one  was  about  crazy,  and  then 
bothering  a  lot — and  fixing  things  all  in  a  min 
ute.  Honest,  he  fooled  the  bumble-bees  that 
way.  They  stopped  coming  on  the  farm — 


DAVID    AND   JONATHAN 

Dave  worried  'em  so — and  that's  bad  luck  for 
a  farm — till  Dave  stole  some  wild  honey  one 
night,  in  the  dark  of  the  moon,  and  built  a  nest 
for  them  in  the  clover.  Then  they  came  back 
and  Dave  forgot  it. 

Till  one  stung  him  one  day — one  that  re- 
me"mbered  him,  I  expect — and  he  caught  him 
and  took  his  stinger  away  and  put  him  back 
in  the  nest.  That  bee  must  have  told  the  others. 
For  none  of  them  ever  bothered  any  of  us  after 
that,  and  they  and  Dave  were  like  brothers. 
And  old  Wasser,  after  that  love  feast,  he  used 
to  get  in  Dave's  way  just  to  get  pushed  out. 

People  called  him  a  shustle — yet  they  always 
had  to  laugh  when  they  said  it,  because  Dave 
had  a  kind  of  way  that  made  them  like  him — 
and  Germans  think  they  have  no  business  to 
like  shustles!  Everything  was  fun — yes.  But 
everybody  likes  fun.  And  it  was  mighty  nice 
on  the  old  farm  to  have  little  Dave  always  so 
gay  and  happy.  And  he  wasn't  selfish  about  it 
—not  a  bit  of  it !  He'd  give  up  about  any  kind 
of  fun  to  be  with  Jon — running  and  tum- 
9 


WAR 

bling  after  him  in  the  furrow  behind  the  plow. 
Never  working,  of  course.  No  one  expected 
that  of  Dave.  He  was  to  go  to  college. 

Maybe  you  think  that  Jon  crammed  his 
head  so  full  of  knowledge  just  to  have  it  on 
hand !  Not  at  all.  It  was  just  to  get  Dave 
ready  for  college.  Well,  Dave  passed  all  his 
entering  examinations  like  a  breeze.  Nobody 
on  earth  but  Jon  would  have  been  able  to 
get  enough  into  Dave  to  pass  'em. 


II 

WHAT  THE  TENTH   SHELL  AT  SUMTER  CAUSED 

HENRY,  my  brother,  was  one  of  the  men 
who  was  helping  to  worry  Major  An 
derson  and  starve  him  out  of  Fort  Sumter  in 
1861.  He  was  a  regular  Southerner  by  that 
time.  And  when  they  found  that  Anderson 
wouldn't  go,  poor  Henry  was  one  of  them  that 
built  the  batteries  on  Sullivan's  Island.  I  know 
just  how  that  sort  of  work  suited  him !  I  bet  he 
was  always  right  out  front.  But  after  the  tenth 
shell  from  Sumter,  they  sent  Henry  to  his 
home  in  a  pine  box,  and  when  it  came  there 
was  no  one  to  receive  it  but  the  girl  Evelyn. 
Her  mother  had  dropped  dead  with  the  des 
patch!  She  loved  our  Henry  so  much!  Eve 
lyn  telegraphs  the  news  of  the  death  with  her 
last  money  and  that  she  has  no  parents  nor 
money  nor  home  now  and  what  shall  she  do.  I 
ii 


WAR 

answers  right  away  that  I'm  coming  to  get 
her,  because  she's  ours  now.  But  at  Mem 
phis  they  turned  me  back  unless  I'd  take 
the  oath  of  allegiance  to  a  lot  of  foolish 
things,  and  if  I  waited  long  they'd,  maybe,  put 
me  in  jail,  for  safe-keeping,  or  improve  my 
appearance  with  chicken  feathers.  Well,  I 
helped  to  tar  and  feather  a  fellow  once — Elick 
Schnatz.  He  didn't  make  much  trouble,  only 
asked  several  times  to  be  excused.  He  was 
such  a  perfect  gentleman  about  it  that  I  tried 
to  get  him  excused.  But  the  boys  said  he  was 
worthless — and  they  hadn't  had  any  fun  for 
some  time.  However,  they  said,  on  account  of 
me,  they  wouldn't  put  any  tar  in  his  hair.  And 
Schnatz  he  thanked  me  for  that. 

"Because,"  he  says,  "I  don't  know  as  there's 
any  kind  of  soap'll  take  tar  out  of  hair  with 
out  taking  the  hair  out — and  I'm  fond  of  my 
hair.  If  you  are  ever  tar-and- feathered,  Von- 
ner,  I'll  try  and  get  your  hair  excused  for  you, 
anyhow,"  says  he. 

But  Schnatz  wasn't  in  Memphis  at  that 
12 


THE  TENTH  SHELL  AT  SUMTER 

time,  and,  anyhow,  I  don't  think  he  could  have 
even  got  my  hair  excused  from  the  fellows  I 
saw  there.  They  hadn't  had  any  fun,  either, 
to  judge  from  the  way  they  enjoyed  the  war, 
for  a  long  time,  and  they  were  bound  to  get 
all  they  could  out  of  this  one.  They  didn't  like 
rrfe  calling  it  "var,"  and  tried  to  make  me  say 
"wah",  and  I  didn't  like  their  calling  it  "wah," 
and  wouldn't  say  it.  I  didn't  make  friends  by 
that,  and  so  I  got  my  notice  one  night  to  let  the 
committee  know  who  and  what  I  was  and 
what  my  business  was  by  the  next  morning. 
Well,  the  walking  was  fair,  and  the  night  was 
dark.  I  didn't  know  the  way,  but  I  could  see 
the  north  star. 

I  didn't  wait.  But  I  sent  Jim  Rasly,  a  nig 
ger,  who  was  as  Union  as  I,  but  who  had  the 
right  words  and  the  right  color  and  was  able 
to  say  "wah"  easy,  and  he  brought  Evelyn  to 
the  old  place.  My,  but  I  was  surprised  to  find 
that  she  wasn't  a  baby,  but  a  tall  young  lady 
of  seventeen,  and  looking  more !  You  see,  I'd 
forgot  about  time  running  one  way  while  I  was 


WAR 

running  the  other !  We  gave  her  Dave's  room 
because  Dave  had  no  use  for  it.  He  was  at 
college  in  Virginia,  where  the  red  Bible  had 
sent  him. 

Well,  Evelyn  gave  us  a  good  many  soprizes, 
at  least  one  a  day — while  they  lasted.  But,  the 
first  and,  maybe,  the  biggest  was  her  affection 
for  our  Henry — being  only  her  stepdaddy. 
But,  she'd  never  been  acquainted  with  her  real 
father,  because  he  died  before  she  was  born, 
and  she  was  always  crazy,  from  a  baby  up,  for 
a  daddy  "like  other  little  girls."  So,  when 
Henry  came  along  and  said  he'd  be  her  daddy 
— well,  though  she  was  a  pretty  big  girl  by  that 
time  she  was  just  as  crazy  for  one — maybe 
more  so — and  you  can  believe  that  Henry 
didn't  disappoint  her!  I  expect  they  was  a 
good  bit  like  her  and  Dave.  Just  the  best 
friends.  Anyhow,  we  soon  found  out  she's 
crazy  about  Henry,  as  a  father,  and  mighty 
mad  at  the  Unions  for  killing  him.  She  used 
to  get  so  worked  up  when  she'd  talk  about  it, 
that  we  kept  on  reminding  her  that  he  wasn't 
14 


THE  TENTH  SHELL  AJ  SUMTER 

her  real  father,  only  her  stepfather,  until  she 
turns  the  vials  of  her  wrath  on  us  all  one  day 
and  asks  us  if  she's  the  only  one  in  this  house 
who  loves  him!  Of  course  we  both  answers 
that  we  adores  him  as  much  as  she  does.  But 
she  snaps  out  that  we  don't  act  like  it  and  goes 
off  to  bed — coming  to  breakfast  the  next  morn 
ing  with  red  eyes,  kissing  us,  and  asking  us  to 
forgive  her,  and  saying  that,  of  course,  we  loved 
Henry  as  much  as  she  did — more!  For,  no 
one  could  know  him  as  long  as  we  had  known 
him  without  being  willing  to  die  for  him !  And 
to  forgive  her  if  we  can. 

Jon  and  I  looks  sheepish  at  each  other,  for, 
though  we  did  love  Henry  all  we  could,  which 
was  a  good  deal,  we  had  never  thought  about 
dying  for  him. 

After  breakfast  Jon  says : 

"Remember  she's  from  the  South,  daddy, 
and  loves  and  hates  harder  than  we  do." 


Ill 

WHAT  WAS  GOING  ON  IN  VIRGINIA 

WELL,  it  had  been  unsettled  on  the  bor 
der,  even  before  the  election  of  Lin 
coln,  and  six  months  after  Dave  went  away  to 
college  in  Virginia,  the  war  trouble  broke  out  in 
earnest.  It  was  about  even  down  our  way,  till 
after  the  battle  of  Bull  Run.  Then  there  were 
many  more  secessionists  than  Unions.  There 
were  three  fights  inside  of  three  weeks  at  the 
store,  and  in  every  one  the  Unions  got  licked.  I 
was  in  the  first  one.  That's  the  reason  I  wasn't 
in  the  other  two. 

Dave  used  to  write  funny  letters  from  col 
lege,  about  rebels  and  Unions  and  we'd  all 
laugh  at  'em.  But  a  little  after  Bull  Run  he 
wrote  one  which  worried  me  some.  He  said 
that  his  class — all  but  him — had  voted  to  go 
into  the  army  of  Virginia,  but  that  he'd  told 
16 


IN    VIRGINIA 

'em  he'd  have  to  write  home  to  find  out 
whether  he  was  Union  or  Democrat.  They 
didn't  like  that.  He  hoped  we  were  Democrats 
so  that  he  could  go  with  the  boys  and  have  a 
good  time  licking  the  Black  Republicans.  It 
was  all  he  could  do,  he  said,  to  stay  behind 
w^aen  the  boys  in  the  slickest  uniforms  he  had 
ever  seen,  mostly  made  by  their  sweethearts, 
and  with  twenty  or  thirty  gold-and-blue  officers 
to  each  regiment,  had  gone  and  taken  Harper's 
Ferry  and  the  navy  yard  at  Gosport — with  no 
deaths.  Every  one  was  a  separate  hero,  and 
all  the  sweethearts  left  behind  (a  good  many 
went  along)  took  the  first  train  to  Harper's 
Ferry  to  tell  them  so.  Couldn't  he  go  along 
when  they  took  Washington? — which  would 
be  next.  Maybe  he  could  find  a  sweetheart. 
And,  when  they  had  Philadelphia  and  New 

> 

York,  he'd  stop  to  see  how  we  were  getting 
along  before  taking  the  oath  of  office  as  Presi 
dent  of  the  Confederate  States  of  America — 
formerly  the  United  States  of  Ditto — just  in 
fun,  of  course,  as  you  can  see. 
17 


,WAR 

But  I  got  Evelyn,  who  was  a  better  scholar 
than  I,  to  write  back  that  we  were  all  Union 
to  the  backbone  and  that  we  were  nailing 
Maryland  down  so  that  she  couldn't  get  out 
of  the  Union,  and  not  to  bother  about  wars 
nor  rumors  of  war,  but  study  hard,  as  he  was 
too  young,  anyhow,  to  fight  with  anybody  but 
me  and  I  could  lick  him  any  day — also  in  fun. 

Evelyn  was  kind  of  shy  and  distressed,  and 
finally  said : 

"Daddy,  dear,  you  oughtn't  to  ask  me  to 
write  that." 

"Why?"  says  I. 

"Because  I  ain't  Union  to  the  backbone," 
says  she. 

"To  be  sure!"  says  I.  "Not  quite  through. 
I  forgot.  You  are  most  two  yards  of  rebel  up 
and  down.  They're  the  most  dangerous — the 
lady  rebels.  I  expect  you'd  like  to  be  making 
funny  flags  and  sticking  them  up  on  female 
colleges  like  they're  doing  in  Dixie.  The 
women's  terrible  fighters !" 

I  laughed,  but  Evelyn  cried.  It  was  hard  for 
18 


IN    VIRGINIA 

her  to  see  a  joke.    Women  ain't  funny,  mostly. 

"Yes,"  she  says,  dropping  tears  on  the  let 
ter,  "just  a  girl  rebel.  And  yes,  they  are  ter 
rible,  thank  God.  And  I  shan't  forget  who 
murdered  my  father!  A  woman's  vengeance 
is  not  like  a  man's.  It  never  sleeps  or  dies. 
-4nd  the  slayer  of  my  father  shall  suffer — or 
his  brethren  shall — for  him !" 

Well!  I  never  saw  Evelyn  like  that!  I 
didn't  think  she  had  it  in  her!  Just  a  nice 
young  girl — till  I  stirred  her  up.  And  remem 
ber,  Henry  really  wasn't  her  father,  though, 
remember  again,  she'd  never  known  any  other 
father.  Of  course,  as  I  have  told  you,  I  don't 
wonder  that  she  loved  our  Henry  a  lot.  Every 
body  did  that  got  near  him.  Dave — happy  lit 
tle  Dave,  always  reminded  me  of  him.  She 
scribbled  fiercely  at  the  letter,  dropping  more 
tears,  and  I  sneaked  away — for,  as  I  told  you, 
I  am  no  kind  of  a  father. 

I  could  see  next  day  that  she  was  scared 
about  it — and  so  I  scolded  her  a  little.  I  was 
never  afraid  to  scold  her — when  she  was  scared. 


IV 

IN  LINCOLN'S  PEN 

A  ND  about  this  time  those  mysterious  do- 
JL  \.  ings  began  which,  I  suppose,  always 
happen  on  the  border  between  two  nations  at 
war.  I  can't  tell,  now,  just  what  they  were  at 
first,  but  it  made  you  creepy — and  look  sud 
denly  behind  you.  Strange  people  came  to  the 
house,  now  and  then,  and  asked  strange  ques 
tions.  Queer  teams  passed  along,  with  queer 
loads — often  covered  over  with  other  things. 
Something  got  into  the  air  which  kept  us  nerv 
ous.  I  would  come  across  a  neighbor  who  had 
been  peaceful  and  friendly  the  day  before,  to 
find  him  fighty  and  an  enemy,  ready  to  slam 
me  in  the  face,  and  more  ready  to  call  me  all 
sorts  of  hard  names,  and  blaming  me  for  the 
whole  war. 

In  church,  which  was  called  "The  Ark  of 
Peace,"  it  got  so  bad  that  the  seats  on  the 
20 


IN    LINCOLN'S    PEN 

south  side  of  the  aisle  was  called  "Africa"  by 
the  Unions,  and  the  north  side  was  called 
"Lincoln's  Pen,"  by  the  secessionists.  And  the 
members  moved  from  one  side  to  the  other,  ac 
cording  to  their  war-politics. 

The  aisle  was  called  "Kentucky"  because  it 
was  supposed  to  be  neutral  territory.  But  no 
secessionist  would  move  an  inch  to  let  a  Union 
pass  to  "Lincoln's  Pen"  through  "Kentucky". 
For,  at  that  time,  after  the  fourth  fight  at  the 
store,  the  secessionists  had  far  the  best  of  it, 
and,  according  to  my  own  count,  there  were 
three  hundred  and  ten  in  "Africa,"  while  "Lin 
coln's  Pen"  had  only  a  hundred  and  forty-six. 
But  that  aisle  made  all  take  sides.  There  were 
no  neutrals.  There  was  nothing  to  sit  on  in 
"Kentucky." 

Of  course,  Parr  Horwitz  had  a  hard  time  of 
if,  preaching  straight  down  that  aisle,  about  an 
gels  and  archangels  all  the  time,  avoiding 
everything  fighty,  till  Herman  Vare  rose  up  in 
his  pew  in  "Africa"  one  Sunday  and  said : 

"Pastor,  the  Bible  is  full  of  war-stories. 
21 


WAR 

David  and  Goliath,  the  Battle  of  Jericho,  the 
slaughter  of  the  Amalekites,  the  crossing  of  the 
Red  Sea,  the  battle  of  Armageddon — all  of 
these  typifying  the  present  struggle  of  the 
South  for  liberty.  We  are  two  to  one  and  we 
demand  that  you  preach  of  wars  and  rumors  of 
wars,  two  sermons  out  of  three,  or  else — " 

Well,  "or  else"  meant  that  the  pastor 
wouldn't  get  his  salary  the  next  month  if  he 
didn't — and,  maybe,  be  wearing  feathers  in 
stead  of  clothes — and  he  began,  by  preaching  a 
hummer — calling  upon  the  secessionists  to 
blow  their  trumpets  and  throw  down  the  aboli 
tion  walls  of  Washington ! 

He  got  a  cheer  from  "Africa" — the  first 
cheers,  I  suppose,  that  old  church  ever  heard — 
and  afterward  it  was  worse  than  ever — until 
"Africa"  outnumbered  "Lincoln's  Pen"  four  to 
one,  and  the  pastor  kept  on  thundering  war-ser 
mons,  never  one  about  peace  and  doves,  and  not 
down  the  aisle,  in  "Kentucky" — where  no  one 
was — but  straight  into  "Africa",  with  his  back 
turned  on  "Lincoln's  Pen". 

22 


IN   LINCOLN'S    PEN 

I  tell  you  it  took  courage  to  go  to  church, 
them  days,  and  keep  from  fighting,  and  soon 
I  excused  myself — and  so  did  most  all  of  the 
other  Unions.  Four  to  one  was  no  use. 

After  that  they  had  it  all  their  own  way  in 
"Africa" — and  they  didn't  seem  to  like  it.  They 
were  fighty,  even  in  church,  wanted  to  drive  us 
to  "Lincoln's  Pen"  to  be  bombarded.  It  wasn't 
much  fun  fighting  battles  without  an  enemy. 
They  were  too  sure  to  win. 

At  last,  when  they  hadn't  us  any  more  to 
fight,  they  got  to  fighting  among  themselves. 
Some  was  too  secession  and  others  wasn't  se 
cession  enough.  Some  was  ready  to  go  into  the 
Confederate  army,  and  others  said  that  was  go 
ing  too  far.  They  got  called  cowards — spies — 
Abolitionists — and  Know-Nothings — and  they 
called  the  others  Copperheads — Knights-of- 
th'e-Golden-Circle  —  and  Nigger-lovers  —  and 
those  were  all  fight-words  to  every  man  in 
those  days.  Well,  the  upshot  of  it  was  that 
they  had  a  battle,  right  there  in  the  church,  and 
tore  the  place  to  pieces,  with  many  wounded 
23 


WAR 

and  no  dead.  Parr  Horwitz  was  so  scared  that 
he  skedaddled,  and  was  never  heard  from 
again,  and  some  one  nailed  up  what  was  left 
of  the  church,  and  it  wasn't  opened  again  for 
five  years.  But  that  fight  in  the  church  made 
worse  blood  than  anything  else — like  church 
fights  always  do.  After  that  everybody  was 
mad  at  everybody  else,  and  called  each  other 
all  kinds  of  hard  names.  And  the  secret  or 
ganizations,  for  one  disloyal  purpose  or  an 
other,  flourished  mightily — just  for  spite. 

It  never  looked  exactly  like  an  Ark  of  Peace 
from  that  time  on — the  nice  old  church. 


V 

ABOUT  THE  LOVE  GAME 

THEN  Dave  wrote,  again,  that  he  must 
join  the  army  down  there — or  come 
home — or  at  least  get  out  of  Virginia.  They 
were  lynching  Union  men  whenever  they  were 
not  otherwise  busy,  which,  thank  heaven,  was 
not  often.  All  that  saved  him  was  that  they 
didn't  know  whether  he  was  Union  or  rebel — 
he  didn't  himself.  He  wanted  to  know  that — 
strictly  confidential.  If  he  was  Union,  he'd 
skedaddle.  If  he  wasn't,  he'd  join  something 
down  there.  There  was  no  school  no  more, 
anyhow.  The  president  of  the  college  was  a 
colonel  in  the  Fairfax  Cavalry,  and  the  chap 
lain  was  an  independent  guerrilla  captain.  He 
ended  by  asking  who  wrote  our  letter  at  the  be 
ginning  and  who  else  at  the  end,  and  who 
slopped  water  on  it,  and  why  did  it  smell  like 
the  flowers  in  the  three-cornered  pasture. 


WAR 

When  I  read  that  last  I  saw  Evelyn  catch  her 
breath,  and  I  asked  her,  very  kind  this  time,  to 
write  back  a  large  no.  That  his  place  was 
taken  and  his  room  was  filled — with  that  per 
fume  that  he  liked.  There  wasn't  a  hole  or  cor 
ner  for  him,  except,  maybe,  the  haymow,  with 
Wasser,  and  so,  he  got  to  stay  down  there,  and 
learn! — and  let  'em  guess  whether  he  wa's 
Union  or  rebel. 

Evelyn  didn't  want  to  write  that,  either,  re 
membering  my  scolding,  maybe,  but  cried  a 
little  again,  though  meek  and  humble  now. 
Nothing  about  the  murderer  of  her  father;  and 
she  kissed  me. 

"Daddy,  I'll  go  away  and  make  room  for 
Dave,"  she  said.  "I  ought  to,  I  am  a  rebel.  I 
can't  help  it." 

But  I  kissed  her  and  said  that  we  liked  her  as 
much  as  Dave,  and  that  she  couldn't  go.  That 
we  loved  her — loved  her  just  for  herself— 
which  was  good  enough  excuse  for  any  one  !— 
and  not  because  we  wanted  to  keep  Dave  down 
among  the  Johnny  Rebs.  He  went  there  to 
26 


ABOUT   THE   LOVE   GAME 

learn  and  he  must.  And  she  might  be  as  much 
of  a  rebel  as  she  liked.  There  was  plenty  of 
'em  about,  and  nobody  was  getting  hurt  yet — 
much. 

It  was  really  so,  that  we  loved  her — and 
most  as  much  as  Dave.  Personally,  I  don't 
remember  ever  seeing  a  prettier  girl  than  Eve 
lyn.  I  don't  think  any  one  around  here  ever 
did.  Our  girls  are  different:  mostly  fat  and 
with  taffy  hair  and  blue  eyes.  But  Evelyn  had 
eyes  like  the  shady  twin-springs  in  the  Poison 
Woods — where  you  can  see  mysterious  things 
you  don't  understand — and  big  and  round — 
a  good  deal  like  a  little  cow-calf.  Unshuldich, 
the  Germans  call  'em.  And  her  hair  was  black 
— actually  black — with  no  shine  to  it — and 
never  would  lay  straight,  just  clung  close  about 
her  face,  careless,  like  pictures  I've  seen,  but 
never  on  a  real  person.  And  her  face  it  was 
kind  of  pale  and  glorious  and  high  born,  with 
red  spots  in  the  cheeks  which  spread  all  over  her 
face,  and  sometimes  her  neck  and  breast,  when 
she  was  surprised  or  happy.  And  it  was  seri- 
27 


WAR 

ous,  mostly,  like  she  didn't  understand  a  joke. 
But  when  she  did  smile  and  open  her  red  lips 
on  her  white  teeth — well,  that  was  about  the 
sweetest  soprize  I've  ever  seen — like  the  clouds 
had  parted  and  the  sun  was  shining  through. 

Her  sadness,  of  course,  was  mostly  about 
her  mother  and  her  father — as  she  always 
called  Henry.  She  had  an  idea  that  the  Unions 
at  Sumter  had  deliberately  murdered  him, 
and  when  she  thought  of  that,  all  the  loveliness 
seemed  to  go  out  of  her,  and  she  became  hard 
and  could  do  unkind  things.  I  always  knew 
when  she  was  thinking  of  this,  by  the  way  her 
eyes  glittered,  and  then  there  was  no  red  in  her 
cheeks.  When  she  began  to  think  of  her 
father's  murder,  as  she  called  it,  I  always  got 
out  of  the  way.  I  don't  like  trouble.  I'm  al 
ways  for  peace.  Anyhow,  if  she  was  left 
alone,  she  always  repented  and  was  extra  nice 
to  us. 

But,  mostly,  she  was  kind  and  gentle,  and — 
like  her  mother,  she  said.  Tall  and  easy  of  mo 
tion.  She  had  a  picture  of  her  mother  and 
28 


ABOUT   THE   LOVE    GAME 

they  was  just  about  the  same  at  her  age,  so 
I  didn't  blame  Henry  so  much,  no  more,  for 

his : 

"Ich  Hebe, 
Du  liebst, 
Wir  lieben — " 

and  so  on.  I  was  old  enough  to  have  sense, 
but  I  use'  to  think  that  such  a  woman  as  Eve 
lyn's  mother  looked  like  could  have  made  me  do 
something  foolish — maybe. 

Well,  she  soon  had  us  that  we'd  have  fallen 
down  and  worshiped  her,  I  expect — when  she 
was  gentle — even  the  cattle  in  the  barnyard. 
But  Jon  was  the  worst  of  all.  Right  from 
the  start  he  was  witchcrafted,  hands  and  feet, 
like  a  nigger  slave.  I  never  saw  anything  so 
quick.  Both  of  them  were  rather  solemn  and 
didn't  talk  much.  But,  Jon's  blue  eyes  weren't 
so  slow  saying  things  to  her  dark  ones,  and  his 
voice,  when  he  read  German  to  her,  out  of 
books,  wasn't  far  behind  hers.  And  when  he 
sung  to  her,  with  the  guitar,  German  songs, 
like  Blau  ist  eln  Bliimclein,  I  just  didn't 
29 


WAR 

know  my  son  no  more!  It  was  a  kind  of  lan 
guage  without  words. 

Jon,  he  was  entirely  different  from  the  rest 
of  the  freundschaft,  anyhow.  I  never  could 
understand  him  myself — which  was  his  daddy. 
Now,  you  could  read  Dave  like  a  book,  through 
and  through.  It  was  wonderful,  the  difference 
between  those  two  brothers. 

And,  handsome — Jon!  With  long  careless 
yellow  hair  that  he  use'  to  shake  out  of  his 
eyes,  and  a  couple,  or  so,  of  little  whiskers  hid 
ing  out  on  his  face. 

The  first  I  knew  what  was  actually  up,  was 
one  day  Evelyn  brought  the  dinner  to  the  field. 
We  were  reaping  with  sickles  in  the  New- 
Bought-Field,  me  and  Jon  and  the  hireland, 
because  the  rye  was  too  much  lodged  to  take 
the  machine  in.  Yet  the  rye  was  good,  and 
we  needed  it  for  roasting  to  make  coffee.  Real 
coffee  had  gone  up  to  a  dollar  a  pound. 

I  didn't  know  Evelyn  was  about  at  all  till 
Jon  dropped  his  sickle  and  run  'way  'cross  the 
30 


ABOUT    THE   LOVE    GAME 

field  and  got  her  off  the  fence  where  she  was 
sticking  fast,  with  the  jug  and  the  basket  to 
manage,  and  scared  of  a  couple  of  harmless 
cows  a-watching  what  she  was  going  to  do 
about  it. 

Jonathan  carried  the  jug  and  the  basket  to 
tfie  old  shellbark  tree  and  looked  like  he  was 
crazy  to  carry  her,  too.  She  had  no  umbrell' 
and  he  held  his  big  straw  hat  over  her  head  to 
keep  the  sun  off.  She  looked  like  a  glowing  red 
flower.  But  I  expect  old  Jonthy  had  no  idea 
how  fine  he  looked  in  his  shining  bare  head, 
with  the  sun  on  it. 

"Now,  that's  strange!"  thinks  I,  to  myself, 
"that  Jon  should  notice  once  that  a  woman  had 
a  fence  to  climb.  He  used  to  laugh  at  them 
when  cows  got  after  them.  And  it  has  to  be 
mighty  funny  when  Jon  laughs." 

"Jonthy,"  says  I,  "how  did  you  know?  Was 
you  expecting  her?" 

"I  must  have  been,  daddy,"  laughs  Jona 
than  back  at  me. 

31 


WAR 

"Was  you  expecting  him — to  rescue  you 
from  the  fearful  cows?"  I  also  asked  of  Eve 
lyn. 

"I  must  have  been,  daddy,"  says  she,  exactly 
like  Jon,  and  smiles  that  smile  I  have  been 
telling  you  about — white  teeth,  red  lips  and 
love  by  the  bushel ! 

"And  neither  didn't  know  the  other  was 
coming?" 

They  both  said  no. 

"One  of  those—" 

"Coincidences,"  says  they  both  at  once. 

Evelyn  was  leaning  up  against  the  old  shell- 
bark  tree  and  swinging  Betsy's  Sunday  sun- 
bonnet,  which  she'd  borrowed  of  the  cook,  by 
the  strings,  right  into  Jon's  face,  and  both 
was  laughing.  Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that 
for  two  such  solemns !  But  it  looked  nice — 
veiy  nice.  Behind  Evelyn  was  the  big  black 
tree,  and  behind  that,  yet,  the  yellow  wheat 
pitching  about,  under  the  wind,  like  the  waves 
of  the  ocean — at  least  I  expect  so,  though  I 
have  never  seen  the  ocean — and  I  don't  sup- 
32 


ABOUT   THE   LOVE   GAME 

pose  it's  yellow — and  for  a  background,  the 
blue  old  sky  with  little  sugar-loaf  clouds  like 
they  might  fall  on  us.  It  looked  like  that  pic 
ture  in  the  old  red  Bible,  of  Ruth  reaping — if 
Evelyn  had  just  had  a  sickle  yet,  and  shorter 
clothes.  But  handsomer  than  Ruth,  enough 
sig^it.  One  of  Ruth's  eyes  wasn't  printed 
right.  And,  anyhow,  Evelyn's  eyes  couldn't 
be  printed. 

Old  Jon,  with  his  smile  and  yellow  hair  and 
whiskers  just  fitting  into  the  color  plan  of  the 
wheat,  wasn't  so  very  far  out  of  the  picture, 
neither.  And,  I  expect,  if  some  one  else  was 
telling  this  he  might  say  that  me  and  the  hire- 
land  was  somewhere  near  the  frame. 

"Daddy,"  says  Evelyn,  "if  I  can  get  work 
here — I'll  work!" 

Just  in  fun.  She  couldn't  work.  Such 
hands  as  she  had  on  the  ends  of  her  arms  are 
for  ornament,  not  work. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "you  can.     We're  just  one 
hand  short.    You  can  take  Dave's  place.     Get 
his  old  rusty  sickle  and  sharpen  it  up,  and  we'll 
33 


WAR 

throw  him  out  of  the  family  in  exchange  for 
you  and  let  him  join  the  rebels  if  he's  so  crazy 
to.  To  all  intents  and  purposes,  as  aforesaid, 
as  Squire  Schwartz  says,  you  are  my  son  Dave, 
and  my  son  Dave  is  disowned — "  just  in  fun, 
as  you  can  see.  Dave  never  worked. 

We  all  laughed  a  little,  not  hard,  and  Jon, 
he  says,  with  a  look  at  Evelyn : 

"She  can  easy  take  Dave's  sickle.     He  was 
never  much  of  a  hand  with  the  sickle — but — 

"But  not  his  place  in  your  hearts !"  breaks  in 
Evelyn,  turning  rebel,  "I've  never  crossed  the 
door-sill  of  your  affections.  I'm  an  outsider. 
A  poor  relation !  I'd  be  a  servant — save  that  I 
don't  work.  I  wish  there  were  a  place  where  I 
could  earn  my  living.  But  I  haven't  been 
taught  anything.  How  can  I?  Some  day  I'll 
offend  you  by  my  rebel  sentiments  and  you'll 
turn  me  out.  And  if  no  one  else  does  it,  Dave 
will  do  it  when  he  comes !  I  haven't  been 
afraid  of  you  and  Jon,  but  I  am  afraid  of 
him!  The  immaculate  and  wonderful  Dave! 
Hah!  And  to  think  that  I  have  his  room! 
34 


ABOUT    THE   LOVE    GAME 

Sleep  in  his  bed!  My  enemy!  I  hate  him! 
Yes,  before  I  have  ever  seen  him  I  hate  him! 
But  I'll  be  as  much  of  a  rebel  as  I  like  though  I 
die  for  it." 

She  pounded  her  breast  till  I  was  afraid 
she'd  hurt  herself,  and  I  went  and  held  her 
ha,nds. 

"Kushy !  kushy !"  says  I,  "be  a  rebel  as  much 
as  you  like.  It's  a  free  country.  It  won't 
make  no  other  rebels  around  here;  they're  all 
made  already ;  or  set  the  Swamp  Creek  afire — 
it  won't  burn.  But  don't  you  hate  Dave. 
That's  a  fight  word.  And  you'll  have  old  Was- 
ser  eating  you  up,  the  bees  stinging  you  and 
the  fish  biting  you  if  you  do.  Besides,  what's 
the  use  in  saying  it  ?  You  can't.  No  one  ever 
could.  Dave  was  made  to  be  loved  and  every 
one  obeys  nature  and  does  it.  Join  in." 

While  I  was  speaking  Jon  came  up  and  took 
one  of  her  hands — in  fact  the  whole  arm,  and 
says: 

"Little  sister,  daddy  is  right.  No  one  on 
earth  ever  hated  Dave,  or  could  hate  him.  Nor 
35 


WAR 

was  anything  on  earth  ever  even  afraid  of  him. 
Even  the  stinging  bees  on  the  farm  love  him. 
You  will,  too,  the  moment  you  see  him.  I 
prophesy  that.  You've  taken  nothing  of  little 
Dave's  but  what  he'd  give  you — a  hundred 
fold!  If  any  one  asked  for  his  head — " 

"Dave  would  cut  it  off  and  hand  it  over  with 
a  polite  bow !"  says  I — just  in  fun,  as  you  can 
see. 

"Is  he  little,  Jonthy?"  asks  Evelyn,  suddenly 
forgetting  tc  be  a  rebel  and  all  about  the  hate 
and  fear.  "If  he's  small  enough  for  me  to 
take  on  my  lap — " 

I  nearly  exploded.  And  even  Jon  had  to 
stuff  his  fist  in  his  mouth. 

"I'm  afraid,"  says  Jon,  "you  couldn't  take 
him  on  your  lap,  handy.  We  used  to  call 
him  little  when  he  was  a  baby,  and  it's  sort  of 
stuck  to  him — I  don't  know  why.  He's  about 
as  big  as  I  am,  by  now,  I  expect." 

"Oh!"  says  Evelyn. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  take  old  Jonthy 
on  your  lap,  handy?"  says  I — in  fun,  of  course. 
36 


ABOUT   THE   LOVE    GAME 

"Daddy !"  says  Jon. 

"Excuse  me!"  says  I.  "I  meant  in  several 
pieces." 

"In  one  way  I'm  glad  about  that,"  says  Eve 
lyn.  "I  don't  like  little  people.  Maybe,  if 
Dave's  as  tall  and  handsome  as  you,  Jon,  I 
won't  exactly  hate  him.  I  may  like  him  a  lit 
tle."' 

"The  easiest  job  you  ever  undertook !"  says 
Jon,  blushing  a  little  about  that  "handsome" 
business. 

"No,  it  will  not  be  easy,"  insists  Evelyn.  "It 
will  take  all  my  power  of  will.  And  who  will 
explain  me?  He  doesn't  seem  ever  to  have 
heard  of  me." 

"You  will  explain  yourself — just  a  look  at 
you!"  says  Jon.  "But,  I  will  tell  Dave  a  few 
things.  Dave  and  me  are  very  good  friends." 

"He  can't  be  as  dear  and  sweet  as  you, 
Jonthy !"  she  says,  leaning  up  against  old  Jona 
than. 

And  Jon,  when  she  done  that,  the  holiness 
came  into  his  face.  I  might  as  well  have  been 
37 


WAR 

a  thousand  miles  away.  Jon  was  in  a  country 
where  I  couldn't  follow. 

But  I  don't  let  no  one  lose  me  that  way.  So 
I  broke  in : 

"How  did  you  get  here,  anyhow,  Evelyn, — 
without  being  injured?  You  are  afraid  of 
cows,  and  you  can't  climb  no  fences.  And  the 
fields  are  full  of  man-eating  rabbits !  How  did 
you  get  here  whole?" 

"With  these,"  she  answers,  holding  on  to 
Jon  more  yet,  and  sticking  out  a  foot  that 
wasn't  made  for  stubbles.  "And  I  am  not 
afraid  of  anything,  and  I  can  climb  fences, 
when  my  good  knight  is  near." 

Meaning  Jon ! 

"U-hu !"  say  I,  "he  looks  like  good  morning, 
by  the  smile,  ever  since  you  came !" 

"Then  I'll  bring  the  dinner  every  day !  It's 
good  to  smile !" 

"Then  Jon  will  have  a  chronic  open  face 
before  the  summer  is  over,"  says  I — just  in  fun 
— "and  be  no  use  with  tools !" 

She  was  different,  that  day,  and  better  than 

38 


ABOUT   THE   LOVE   GAME 

I'd  ever  seen  her.  Bitter  and  sweet.  Gentle 
and  savage.  Now  she  was  glowing.  A  little 
while  ago  she  was  a  thunder-storm.  I  don't 
know  why  men  like  that  kind  of  women. 
Jon  had  no  learning  about  them.  But  he  fell 
the  same  as  they  who  had.  Like  brother  Henry 
— me,  if  I'd  had  the  chance. 

Apple-jack  always  makes  me  sleepy.  So 
the  hireland  and  me  laid  down  behind  the  shell- 
bark  tree  to  take  a  nap.  Jon  he  laid  down  on 
the  grass  at  Evelyn's  feet  and  read  poetry  to 
her  out  of  a  German  book  he  had  in  his  pocket. 

It  was  about  an  old  man  in  Germany  who 
sold  his  soul  to  the  Old  Boy  so's  he  could  be 
made  young  and  love  a  girl  he  knew.  They 
talked  a  good  deal  about  it — Evelyn  contend 
ing  there  were  no  such  men  nowadays,  old 
Goliath,  as  we  sometimes  called  Jonthy,  telling 
her  that  the  world  was  just  full  of  'em.  I  ex 
pect  Jonthy  was  trifling  with  the  truth  a  little 
about  that.  Anyhow,  I  never  heard  about  any 
of  'em  being  willing  to  give  up  their  souls  for  a 
little  while  with  a  woman.  Most  of  'em  won't 

39 


WAR 

even  give  up  smoking  and  drinking  for  'em. 
An'  the  way  they  bother  'em  after  they  get  'em 
makes  me  think  that  Jon  either  didn't  know  all 
the  news  or  was  fooling  Evelyn  a  little. 

Jonathan  just  let  himself  go  deeper  and 
deeper — didn't  try  to  beat  the  love  game. 
Evelyn  didn't  seem  to  notice  it,  and  Jon  had 
no  idea  that  it  mightn't  be  all  right  with  her. 
My,  how  it  changed  him !  But,  love  does  that 
to  a  fellow.  It  done  it  to  me  once.  That's 
how  I  learned  to  wear  a  stovepipe  hat!  Jon, 
he  wore  paper  collars  on  Sundays,  and  put 
smelly  things  on  his  hair,  which  Evelyn  made 
him  quit,  and  went  to  town  once  and  got  a 
shave.  Evelyn  was  also  disappointed  in  the 
shave.  So  Jon  blushed  and  says  he'll  never 
do  it  again — and  he  didn't. 

"Fortunately,  you  didn't  get  your  hair  cut," 
says  Evelyn.  "All  it  needs,  now  and  then,  is  a 
little  trimming.  And  I'll  do  that — if  you'll 
let  me.  I  use'  to  do  it  for  father." 

Well,  once  a  day  wouldn't  have  been  too 
often  for  Jonthy  to  have  Evelyn  get  the  scis- 
40 


ABOUT    THE   LOVE    GAME 

sors  and  her  fingers  in  his  hair,  after  she  begun 
it!  But  she  wouldn't  do  it  more'n  once  a  month 
— on  the  first — which  she  said  was  too  often, 
but,  on  account  of  being  forced,  she  would  do  it 
that  much.  Jon  never  let  the  day  pass  by! 
He'd  bring  her  the  scissors,  the  comb  and  a 
tdXvel  for  her  to  pin  around  him — My,  my! 
When  she'd  pin  that  towel  her  arms  had  to  go 
round  him!  She  was  standing  behind.  Once 
he  kissed  her  both  hands  when  they  was  under 
his  chin.  Evelyn  laughed.  But  Jon  was  white 
as  the  towel.  Then  he  got  red.  He  stayed  that 
color. 

Those  hair-cuts!  Jon's  head  looked  like 
the  places  where  Shalom  used  to  eat  grass, 
in  the  meadows.  Shalom  was  a  lazy  and  lux 
urious  sort  of  a  cow,  so  she'd  eat  in  the  shade 
Q.f  a  tree — sometimes  laying  down.  And,  some 
places,  where  the  grass  was  extra  sweet,  she'd 
eat  till  the  ground  stuck  out.  Others,  where 
timothy  grew  instead  of  clover,  she'd  let  alone, 
or  just  eat  off  the  heads  of  the  timothy.  You 
know  how  stubbly  that  looks !  Then  she'd  lay 
41 


WAR 

aown  on  it  all  and  go  to  sleep.     Well — that's 
Jon's  head.    Real  cow-licks ! 

But  Jon  wouldn't  have  had  it  different  no 
sooner  than  old  Shalom.  I  think  he  loved 
the  spots  best  where  Evelyn  absent-mindedly 
cut  down  to  the  skin.  And  if  she  happened  to 
take  a  piece  of  that — all  the  better  for  Jon, 
somehow.  It's  a  wonderful  game — love! 


VI 

UNDER  THE   PLUM   TREES 

IT'S  no  use.     I  can't  tell  it.     Old  Jon  was 
almost  as  gay  and  joyous  as  Dave,  after  a 
while — that's  how  glorious  old  Jonthy  got  to 
be  with  Evelyn  about. 

I  use'  to  go  out  under  the  plum  trees  at 
night,  sometimes,  to  reflect  about  my  wife  who 
was  dead.  And,  one  night,  when  I  was  laying 
on  the  flat  of  my  back  on  that  old  yellow  bench, 
looking  at  the  moon  through  the  trees — I  can 
reflect  much  better  that  way — Jonathan  and 
Evelyn  came  out  and  sat  on  the  red  bench. 
Evelyn  folded  her  hands — this  way — and 
looked  up,  through  the  trees,  at  the  big  yellow 
moon,  as  if  she  had  some  one  dead  to  think 
of,  also,  and  nothing  much  to  say.  Jonathan 
begun  to  tune  his  guitar.  He  was  a  nice  play 
er,  and  he  kept  picking  soft  little  chords  for  a 
while,  just  rambling  round  among  the  notes 
43 


WAR 

to  find  something  nice  enough  for  Evelyn.  He 
found  it,  all  right,  after  a  while,  and  begun 
to  sing.  It  was : 

"Du  hast  das  Herze  mein, 
So  ganz  genommen  ein, 
Dass  ich  kciri  Andre  lieb', 
A  Is  dich  all  ein — " 

Well,  it  was  like  praying.  And  he  was  look 
ing  up  in  Evelyn's  face  with  an  expression  in 
his  own  that  I  had  never  seen  there  yet.  But 
Evelyn  didn't  seem  to  notice — just  kept  look 
ing  up  at  the  moon,  in  the  Mond-licht,  and  went 
on  reflecting.  Me?  I  was  getting  hot  at  her 
myself — a  not  listening  when  old  Jonthy  sang 
to  her  like  that !  I'd  have  broke  out  in  a  min 
ute  more — if  Jon  hadn't  begun  to  inch  along 
the  bench  till  he  got  near  her — then  almost 
against  her.  Then  he  looked  in  her  face,  play 
ing  softer  and  softer.  I  could  hardly  stand 
it.  But  she  never  noticed.  Then  Jon  took  her 
hand — kissed  it — smiled  up  at  her  like  an 
angel.  Jon,  he  must  have  learned  that  out 
of  books — it  was  so  fine  and  manly.  I  know 
44 


UNDER   THE    PLUM    TREES 

he  didn't  learn  it  of  me.  She  notices  then, 
all  right,  and  looks  down,  as  if  it  was  the 
first  time  she  ever  knew  that  she  and  Jon 
lived  in  the  same  world.  She  actually  didn't 
know  what  had  happened.  But  she  kept  get 
ting  her  thoughts  together,  and  Jon  kept  the 
r/and — and  kissed  it  some  more.  Then  she 
begun  to  wake  up.  She  looked  at  Jon  sev 
eral  times,  then  down  at  the  hand  he  had, 
several  times  more,  then  she  says,  soft  and  sur 
prised,  passing  the  other  hand  over  her  eyes : 

"Why,  Jon!" 

"Let  me  kiss  your  soul !"  says  Jon. 

"And — and,  I  never  saw  you  look  at  me 
quite  like  that !" 

"Let  me  look  at  your  heart !"  begs  Jon. 

"But  what  does  it  mean,  Jon  ?" 
'   "Love!"  says  Jon.     "Holy  adoration!    The 
greatest  love  any  man  in  all  the  world  ever  had 
for  any  woman !" 

And  he  looked  up  at  her,  in  the  light  of  the 
moon,  in  the  most  beautiful  and  beseeching 
way  I  ever  saw. 

45 


WAR 

"Love?"  asks  Evelyn,  still  not  quite  awake, 
and  passing  her  hand  over  her  face. 

"Du  hast  das  Herze  mein, 
So  ganz  genommen  ein — " 

Jon  sang. 

Then  at  last  she  woke  up  entirely  and  looked 
at  Jon  in  a  strange  and  terrible  kind  of  way. 
She  took  her  hand  away  and  moved  off. 

"Jon,"  she  says,  "you're  my  brother." 

"I'm  your  slave !"  says  Jon. 

"Give  your  love  to  some  one — worthier  of 
it!" 

"There  is  none  such!" 

"As  for  me — I  am  a  monster!  If  you  knew 
what  makes  me  say  that  you  would  agree  in 
it.  You  must  not  love  me.  If  you  knew  my 
thoughts  you  could  not." 

"Monster!"  says  old  Jon,  "you're  an  angel, 
straight  from  heaven!" 

Now  what  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  son  of 
mine! 

Evelyn  just  looked  as  if  she  couldn't  under 
stand  his  language. 

46 


UNDER    THE    PLUM    TREES 

"You  came  like  a  burst  of  divine  flame  to 
kindle  a  holy  passion,"  Jon  goes  on.  "The 
Lord  sent  you  to  complete  my  imperfect 
life.  Before  you  came  there  was  only  little 
Dave.  But  he  had  to  go  away.  I  seem  to  un 
derstand  that  with  your  coming  I  am  myself 
again  and  that  you  are  to  be  me,  I  you — one 
perfect  exquisite  being! — and  that  you  are 
never  to  go  again." 

"Jon,"  says  Evelyn,  turning  soft  and  pitiful, 
"you  must  try  and  be  merciful — to  us  both." 

"Mercy  is  for  you,  dear,"  says  Jon. 

"No,  no,  brother  Jonthy,"  says  Evelyn,  even 
more  pitiful.  "I  want  just  enough  of  your 
great  love  for  a  sister.  That  is  all  I  dare 
receive.  That  is  all  you  may  give.  Keep  the 
rest  for  some  one  more  worthy.  Now,  let  us 
not  hurt  each  other.  I  am  capable  of  it !  Maybe 
I  have  done  it — hurt  you  all.  But  what  mat 
ters  it  that  a  few  of  us  fall  by  the  wayside  if 
the  people  are  saved!  Jon,  there  must  be  no 
more  of  this.  I  have  dedicated  myself  to  a 
great  cause.  I  am  not  I  any  more.  I  am  a 
47 


WAR 

thing — a  machine  to  do  the  will  of  a  cause. 
One  small  link  in  the  great  chain  which  leads 
from  here  to  there !" 

She  points  south.  Then  she  says,  like  a  gen 
eral  giving  a  command: 

"There  must  be  no  more  of  this.  I  am  not 
love.  I  am  war!  I  am  a  great  cause!" 

Well,  of  course,  Jon  didn't  understand  that 
crazy  stuff  any  more  than  I  did.  He  goes 
straight  back  to  the  love. 

"Evelyn,"  says  Jon,  desperate,  "it  must  be 
more !  You  must  marry  me." 

Then,  even  in  the  night,  I  could  see  the  hard 
ness  come  into  her  face,  and  when  she  spoke 
it  cut  through  her  voice  like  iron. 

"Would  you  like  to  know  what  my  heart  is 
full  of  at  this  moment?"  she  says. 

"Yes,"  says  Jon,  thinking  maybe,  that  it  was 
something  about  him. 

"Murder!"  says  Evelyn. 

"No,  no,"  says  Jonathan,  "not  in  that  heart. 
It  is  made  to  be  filled  with  love.  Nothing  else." 
48 


UNDER    THE    PLUM    TREES 

She  laughed  in  that  way  that  always  made 
me  shiver. 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  aware  that  we  are 
enemies,  and  become  more  so  every  day — with 
every  shot  fired  down  there  in  Virginia.  I  tell 
you  that  every  one  of  those  bullets  goes 
through  my  heart — here !  I  tell  you  that  I  hate 
you  all — all  who  call  yourselves  Union.  And 
you  know  that  you  all  hate  me, — that  your  lit 
tle  affection  for  me  is  what  you  would  give  to 
any  mendicant  who  came  to  your  door.  Oh, 
you  are  good  in  that  way!  You  don't  turn 
beggars  out.  But  you  are  not  good  enough  to 
be  rebels! — as  you  fools  call  us.  You  don't 
stop  to  think  that  your  father's  brother  had 
the  courage  to  be  one!  And  you  don't  re 
call  that  some  of  you  murdered  him !  At  night, 
while  he  stood  faithfully  at  his  gun!  And  his 
blood  is  on  you — his  own  kin — as  well  as  the 
rest.  Shall  I  tell  you  some  more  of  the  things 
in  my  heart?  Oh,  there  won't  be  any  talk  of 
love  between  us  after  this — will  there?  Nor 
49 


WAR 

between  me  and  any  one  who  calls  himself  a 
follower  of  Lincoln.  But  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  that  I  am  living,  breathing,  hoping  only 
for  the  South — and  that  I  am  going  to  do  all 
I  can  to  help  her !  All,  all !  She  shall  prevail ! 
She  shall  conquer!  For,  there  are  a  million 
like  me  at  work  for  her!  Do  you  think  the 
North  can  defeat  such  a  host  as  that?  A  mil 
lion  like  me !" 

"No,"  says  Jon,  fascinated  like  a  bird  by  a 
snake,  "no,  not  one  like  you!  You  are  glori 
ous!  You  are  invincible — you  alone!  And 
your  cause  must  be — to  raise  such  a  spirit  in 
even  one  such  woman!  Though  I've  thought 
little  enough  about  either  side — to  my  shame. 
But,  love—" 

"You  mean — you  mean,"  whispers  she, 
stooping  and  almost  putting  her  arms  around 
Jon,  "that  you  might  be — can  be — are  one  of 
us?  Speak !" 

But   poor   old   Jon   was   troubled   at   that. 
Think  of  the  temptation!    He  took  her  hands 
to  keep  her  near,  but  he  said  : 
50 


UNDER    THE    PLUM    TREES 

"I  do  not  know — I  do  not  know!  I  have 
thought  little  about  the  war — about  anything 
but  you — since  you  came !  I  don't  know !" 

This  did  not  please  Evelyn.  She  flung  his 
hands  away. 

"You,  a  man,  and  don't  know!  Oh,  if  the 
wpmen  could  but  fight  this  war !  You,  a  man, 
with  hell  seething  all  about  you  and  talking, 
thinking  of  love!  A  woman!  A  woman's 
man !  There  is  no  room  in  my  heart  for  love, 
or  such  a  man !  I  don't  even  hear  you.  Shall  I 
tell  you  the  plan  I  was  making  when  you  began 
to  talk  of  love?  I  was  planning  to  find,  here, 
in  the  North,  a  soldier — many — to  take  the 
place  of  my  father.  That  would  be  just  That 
would  be  only  fair  vengeance.  I  thought  of 
you  for  my  soldier!" 

I  imagined  for  the  next  few  minutes  the  girl 
/ 

had  gone  crazy.  And  Jon  must  have  thought 
so,  too.  For  he  kept  stroking  a  hand  which 
she  didn't  know  he  had  and  murmuring : 

"You!    You  thought  of  me.     You  thought 
that!    You!" 

51 


WAR 

"Me!  Now  do  you  want  to  talk  a  little 
more  of  love — my  kind  of  love?  Or  do  you 
prefer — war !  Never  speak  of  love  to  me  again 
till  you  are  one  of  my  kind." 

She  got  so  jerky  and  crazy  that  Jon  was 
scared. 

"Kushy,  kushy!"  he  kept  saying. 

"I'll  make  a  bargain  with  yon,"  she  laughs  to 
Jon,  crazy,  and  stooping  and  looking  like  a 
young  devil  in  his  face,  "I  don't  love  you;  I 
can't  lie.  But  I  do  want  you !  I  can't  love  any 
one  or  anything  called  Union,  Republican  or 
Northern.  But  I'll  marry  you  if  you'll  take 
the  place  of  my  father.  Do  you  understand? 
I  can  put  you  right  through  the  lines  to  Lee 
without  risk.  What  do  you  say?  Here's  the 
price  of  one  traitor!  I!  I'll  be  your  wife — 
your  harlot — anything — upon  the  terms  pro 
posed  !" 

She  stood  up  straight  and  evil-looking — like 
pictures  of  serpents  I've  seen,  charming  ani 
mals.  Then  she  laughs  and  is  gone. 

And  Jon  was  struck  so  dumb  that  he  didn't 
52 


UNDER    THE    PLUM    TREES 

move  a  finger — not  even  looking  around  when 
she  disappeared  like  a  snake  sliding  through 
the  grass. 

For  a  long  time  nothing  moved.  Then  the 
guitar  fell,  pang-tang !  and  Jon  said  something 
that  got  mixed  up  with  the  music. 

I  got  up,  quiet,  and  went  over  and  sat  down 
aside  of  Jonthy.  He  just  looked  up,  surprised 
to  see  me  there,  but  said  nothing.  I  was  sorry 
for  him.  At  last  I  pulls  him  up  and  leads  him 
off  to  bed. 

"Boy,"  says  I,  nice  and  kind,  when  we  got 
to  his  room,  "no  woman  is  worth  dishonor. 
No  one  woman  can  be  won — or  if  won,  kept — 
by  dishonor — not  even  that  she  goes  after  her 
self.  Your  daddy  and  Dave  are  Union — to  the 
backbone.  Your  mother  was — that's  dead. 
This  old  house  is — to  the  chimley  tops.  There 
never  was  any  such  doings  under  its  roof. 
General  George  Washington  slept  under  it. 
Jonthy,  what  are  you  ?" 

He  just  looked  at  me,  crazy,  like  he'd  never 
seen  me  before. 

53 


WAR 

"Think  about  it,  Jon,"  says  I.  "It's  time. 
Good  night." 

Well — you  know  what  a  difference  there  is 
in  the  morning-.  For  myself,  I  wondered 
whether  all  of  it  had  happened.  I  had  to  begin 
my  breakfast  alone.  But  when  Jon  and  Eve 
lyn  came  I  was  sure  that  everything  had  taken 
place.  Evelyn  was  sorry  and  weepy,  and  shy 
of  Jon  at  first.  But  he  went  over  to  her  just  as 
of  old,  when  she  came  down,  and  kissed  her 
good  morning,  on  her  forehead,  and  then  she 
laid  her  head  against  him  and  cried.  As  for 
Jon — he  looked  like  he'd  had  a  spell  of  sick 
ness. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  she  sobs,  "It's  in  here, 
boiling  up  all  the  time.  I  try  to  beat  it — I  do, 
indeed,  but  all  of  a  sudden  it  comes  out  without 
me  saying  yes  or  no.  I  can't — I  can't!  If  you 
love  me,  please  try  and  bear  with  that.  Forgive 
me,  Jon,  forgive  me,  daddy!  Always  for 
give  me !  You  must.  It's  an  infirmity,  illness. 
Dearest  Jon  and  dearest  daddy  in  the  world ! 
And  put  your  arms  about  me — both  of  you — 
54 


UNDER    THE    PLUM    TREES 

yes,  about  an  irreconcilable  rebel ! — two  Black 
Republicans — and  let  us  have  peace.  I'll  try 
not  to  let  it  happen  again." 

Just  think  of  a  woman  who  could  do  all  that 
and  smile  and  cry  all  together,  like  an  angel! 
Wasn't  she  wonderful?  And  that's  the  kind 
of  women  men  go  crazy  about!  But  don't  you 
forget  that's  the  kind  of  women  go  crazy  'bout 
men — when  the  right  one  comes ! 

She  pulls  one  on  each  side  of  her,  so's  we're 
all  hugged  and  mixed  up  together,  and  all 
laughing  and  crying  says : 

"Oh,  daddy,  dear,  and  Jonthy,  darling,  to 
gether,  tighter!  If  you'd  only  always  do  that 
when  I  am  that  way — put  your  arms  about  me 
— the  more  harder  the  better — and  just  hold 
me  till  the  devil  goes  out  of  me !  Kill  me  this 
way  if  you  must !" 

"There's  no  need,"  says  I,  thinking  it  all  over 
— after  what  I  knew  about  women! 

None  of  us  said  any  more  about  it,  though 
we  all  watched  our  words  for  some  time,  and, 
at  last,  it  wore  off  and  was  forgotten. 

55 


WAR 

/on  says  to  me  one  day  later,  still  kind  of 
dazed : 

"It  didn't  mean  a  thing,  did  it  daddy?" 

"Not  a  thing!"  says  I. 

"Do  you  think  it'll  happen  again?" 

"Often,"  says  I,  "and  won't  mean  no  more. 
Look  out  for  it.  And  remember — nothing 
from  nothing  is  nothing.  You  know  what  you 
said  yourself,  Jonthy.  Southern  women  love 
and  hate  harder  than  we  do — when  they're 
thinking  of  it.  When  they're  not  they  don't 
love  or  hate  at  all — just  like  we  do." 


VII 

WHO  WAS   LUCAS  MALLORY? 

WELL,  war  makes  funny  things  to  hap 
pen.     Ben  Crider's  tavern  is  straight 
down  the  valley,  southward,  from  here.     And 
though  the  Criders  had  lived  there  about  as 
long  as  we  had  lived  here,  I  had  never  seen 
their  house  from  here,  even  in  winter-time,  ow 
ing  to  the  trees  being  so  thick  around  it.    But, 
one  night,  I  saw  a  light  in  that  direction.   Even 
then  I  wouldn't  have  noticed  it,  I  expect,  if  it 
hadn't    been    behaving    so    funny.      It    went 
around  in  circles,  then  right,  then  left,  then  up 
and  down,  and  to  all  quarters  of  the  circle,  and 
in  all  sorts  of  combinations  of  them.    I  thought 
it  was  some  boys,  maybe,  playing  with  firesticks 
— as  they  often  used  to  do  in  the  hills  about' 
here.   Next  day  I  could  see  the  window  in  the 
gable  of  the  Crider  tavern,  for  the  first  time  in 
57 


WAR 

my  life — and,  by  hokey,  the  reason  was  that 
three  trees  in  a  northerly  line  from  the  window 
had  been  cut  down! 
I  rode  over. 

"Ben,"  I  says,  "why  did  you  cut  those  nice 
old  trees  down?" 

"Fire-wood,"  says  Ben  briefly.  "This  war'll 
be  making  us  do  worse  things  than  that  before 
it's  over.  We'll  be  burning  up  our  grain,  eat 
ing  our  horses,  and  cows  and  mules,  et  cetera. 
About  the  only  thing  that  will  be  plenty,  pres 
ently,  will  be  pure  spring  water — and  I'd  hate 
to  live  on  that.  A  dollar'll  cost  two  dollars  and 
a  half  before  the  thing  is  done,  and  you'll  have 
to  give  your  farm  to  get  a  suit  of  clothes.  Are 
you  still  so  crazy  for  it?" 

"I  never  was,"  says  I.    "I'm  peaceful." 
"So  am  I.    Then  why  don't  you  help  to  stop 
it?"  yells  Ben.    "No  one  can  be  peaceful.    It's 
one  side  or  the  other.    Where  are  you?" 
"Me  ?"  I  says.    "How  can  I  stop  it  ?" 
"By  fighting — joining  the  Knights — helping 
58 


WHO    WAS    LUCAS    MALLORY? 

the  Underground — doing  everything  you  can 
against  it." 

"What,"  I  asks,  "shall  I  make  the  Unions 
do  ?  I'm  Union,  you  know !  You  want  me  to 
help  the  rebels." 

"Make  Abe  Lincoln  let  the  South  go  her 
wa^r.  She  deserves  it.  She'll  go,  anyhow. 
She's  stronger  than  the  North.  Why  shouldn't 
she?  If  you  want  to  leave  me,  have  I  a  right 
to  pin  you  to  your  chair  and  keep  you  ?" 

"But  you  wouldn't  rather  have  twenty  or 
thirty  little  tomcat  governments,  none  of  'em 
having  any  power  or  dignity,  than  this  one 
great,  grand,  glorious  Union  ?"  says  I. 

"If  the  people  want  it  that  way — yes,"  says 
Ben,  violent.  "It's  their  country,  not  Abe  Lin 
coln's." 

"You  can  bet,"  says  I,  "that  they'd  be  cut 
ting  down  each  other's  trees  then  to  beat  the 
band !" 

Ben  flares  up  entirely  unaccountable,  and 
says : 

59 


WAR 

"Who's  cutting  down  other  people's  trees?" 

"No  one,  yet,  as  I  know,"  says  I. 

"I'll  cut  down  my  own  as  often  as  I  please/' 
says  Ben. 

"No,  only  once,"  says  I. 

"You're  an  ignorant  fool !"  says  Ben. 

"But  that's  so — ain't  it — that  you  can't  cut 
a  tree  down  more  than  once?" 

"Fool!"  says  Ben. 

"Ben,"  I  says  on,  "if  it's  fire-wood,  why 
don't  you  cut  it  into  cord  sticks — instead  of 
laying  whole  on  the  ground?" 

Ben  was  a  bit  puzzled  for  a  minute. 

"Ain't  had  no  time?"  asks  I. 

He  grabs  on  that. 

"You  bet  not!  This  dam'  war's  a  mighty 
busy  business — night  and  day — especially 
night!" 

"What's  in  the  war  to  keep  a  lonely  country 
tavern  busy,"  says  I,  "especially  at  night? 
That's  funny." 

"Well,  you  try  keeping  one.  First  a  com 
pany  of  Confederates  comes  and  eats  me  out  of 
Co 


WHO    WAS    LUCAS    MALLORY? 

house  and  home.  Then  a  regiment  of  Federals 
does  the  same." 

"You  get  your  house  eaten  pretty  often, 
Ben,"  says  I. 

"Some  one  rides  off  with  a  horse,"  Ben  goes 
on,  "leaving  me  a  polite  note  to  the  U.  S.  A. 
or^he  C.  S.  A.,  to  pay  for  'em.  I  got  twenty 
such  notes !  Well,  do  you  think  any  of  'em  is 
going  to  get  paid  ?  And  there  are  other  things 
keep  me  busy  and  poor,"  but  he  didn't  tell  me 
these. 

"You  got  hard  luck,  Ben,"  says  I,  "and  I'll 
send  the  hireland  over  to  cut  your  trees  into 
fire-wood  and  help  anything  else." 

"No,  you  don't,"  says  Ben,  more  angry  than 
I  could  see  any  excuse  for.  "You  mind  your 
own  business  and  keep  to  your  own  pasture  and 
I'll  do  the  same.  I  know  where  you  stand. 
And,  while  we're  about  it,  you  might  as  well 
know  that  the  neighbors  think  some  of  your 
family  had  better  join  something — or  enlist  in 
the  army — one  side  or  the  other!" 

"Suppose,  Ben,"  says  I,  "you  take  your  own 
61 


WAR 

advice  and  'tend  to  your  own  business  and  keep 
behind  your  own  fences  and  join  things  and 
enlist  yourself — like  they  say  you're  doing.  If 
you  don't  maybe  there's  a  licking  due  you." 

"Hah!"  laughs  Ben,  "I  wouldn't  give  much 
for  the  skin  of  any  man  who  raises  his  hand 
against  me!  I  can  bring  a  thousand  men  up 
the  valley  in  ten  minutes." 

"Well,"  says  I,  madder  and  madder,  "I'll 
risk  my  skin  and  do  it  now — one  against  a 
thousand  and  one !" 

And  I  would — if  a  squad  of  Unions  hadn't 
rode  up  just  then. 

"Are  these  the  aforesaid  thousand?"  I  asked 
Ben.  "All  right  if  they're  that  color." 

"No,"  says  he.  "They're  not  that  color, 
dam'  you !" 

Of  course  everybody  knew  that  Ben  was  a 
kind  of  secessionist — but  I  didn't  know  he  was 
as  outspoken  and  fighty  as  that.  He  use'  to  sit 
in  "Africa"  at  the  church — right  out  front. 

The  commanding  officer  studies  us  both  for 
a  minute,  and  looks  up  and  down  the  valley, 
62 


WHO    WAS    LUCAS    MALLORY? 

then  from  the  felled  trees  all  about — especially 
at  the  house  and  the  doors  and  the  windows — 
and  whether  any  other  house  could  be  seen 
from  them.  But  no  house  except  mine  could 
have  been  seen  from  Crider's — and  mine  was 
hid,  just  as  his  had  been,  by  thick  trees. 

'"What  are  these  trees  cut  down  for?"  he 
asks  me,  thinking  I  owned  them. 

"Fire-wood,"  grins  I.  "The  soldiers  eat  me 
out  of  fire-wood  all  the  time." 

"Why  aren't  they  made  into  fire-wood 
then?  They  can't  be  eaten  this  way." 

"Too  busy." 

The  officer  smiles  a  little,  then  says — sud 
den: 

"Where's  Lucas  Mallory?" 

"Again,  please,"  says  I,  "I  never  heard  that 
name  before.  Is  it  a  bird  or  a  beast?" 

"A  man." 

"An  Irishman?  You're  in  the  wrong  county 
for  Irishmen.  Three  counties  further  on.  Try 
something  Dutch." 

"Don't  know  anything  of  Lucas  Mallory, 

63 


WAR 

eh?    Well,  then,  what  do  either  of  you  know 
of  Sharon  Lodge  of  the  K.  of  the  G.  C?" 

"What  is  that,  sir?"  asks  Ben,  very  polite 
and  dumb  and  innocent. 

"Oh,  hell !"  says  the  officer.  "Knights  of  the 
Golden  Circle.  What  are  your  names?  I 
suppose  you  know  that?" 

I  gave  him  mine.  But  when  it  came  time  for 
Ben  to  give  his  he  says :  "Phineas  Brown,  sir," 
kind  of  simple,  winking  to  me. 

The  officer  wrote  that  down. 

"And  where  is  Crider's  ?"  says  he. 

Ben  winked  at  me  again  and  says : 

"Some  six  miles  further  south.  In  this  di 
rection.  Crider  passed  through  here  not  more 
than  twenty  minutes  ago,  sir,  that  road,  south, 
sir." 

"What  does  Crider  look  like?" 

"He's  a  tall  bald  man  with  whiskers,  and 
looks  sneaky,"  says  Ben. 

At  that  the  officer  faces  his  men  about  and 
goes  off  south  at  a  hard  gallop. 
64 


WHO    WAS    LUCAS    MALLORY? 

"That's  not  a  good  photograph  of  you,  Ben," 
says  I.  "Except,  maybe,  the  'sneaky'  parts." 

"You  bet  not.  I  suppose  I'm  drafted  and 
they're  looking  for  me,"  says  Ben.  "I'm  going 
to  the  woods.  You  had  better  do  the  same  for 
a  while — in  another  direction.  Don't  forget 
you've  been  seen  with  me."  He  laughs  like 
the  joke's  on  me. 

And  Ben  actually  starts  toward  the  woods 
and  away  from  his  house. 

I  went  home — a  good  deal  mixed. 


VIII 

DAVE 

AJD,  a  little  while  afterward,  who  do  you 
think  walks  in  the  house,  entirely  unex 
pected  ?    Dave ! 

My!  My  old  heart  got  stuck  in  my  throat 
and  nearly  choked  me  to  death.  Dave  laughs 
like  a  fiend  and  pounds  me  on  the  back,  like 
they  do  children  that  are  strangling. 

"Now  you  better,  daddy?"  he  laughs  at  last, 
setting  me  up  careful,  in  a  chair.  "What  was 
it?  Meat  or  tobacco?" 

"What  do  you  want  here,"  I  says,  "beating 
up  the  kindest  and  most  unfortunate  daddy  in 
the  world  ?  Sit  down !"  and  he  sits  down  on  top 
of  me,  nearly  bursting  me  open.  "Go  right 
back  where  you  came  from,  you  Johnny  Reb!" 
—just  in  fun,  of  course.  I  was  so  happy! 

"I  won't!"  says  Dave.     "I  ain't  of  age  yet 
and  you  got  to  keep  me  till  I  am.    You  can  be 
66 


DAVE 

arrested  and  sent  to  jail  for  turning  out  such 
a  nice  son." 

"Come  along,"  says  I.  "We'll  all  be  there 
sooner  or  later,  anyhow — the  way  things  are 
going.  It'll  be  a  fine  place  to  keep  a  little  boy 
out  of  mischief." 

^Little  boy !"  says  Dave,  lifting  me  as  easy, 
and  carrying  me  around  the  room  on  his  shoul 
der.  "Now  you  behave !" 

He  slams  me  down  in  a  chair  and  hugs  me. 

"Take  notice,"  says  he,  "that  I  won't  be 
crowded  out  of  house  and  home  by  no  second 
hand  female  by-marriage  cousin." 

"Who  told  you  about  her?"  asks  I. 

"Told  me  ?  Everybody  along  the  road  from 
Virginia  to  here.  Ben  Crider  and  she  are  good 
friends." 

/"Now,  you  don't  say  so,"  says  I,  a  good  bit 
soprized  at  that.  "I  wonder  where  she  and 
Ben  met." 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Dave,  "but  he  thinks 
she's  a  noble  woman !" 

Dave  laughs  at  that,  as  if  he  knew  the  sort 
67 


WAR 

of  nobility  that  would  appeal  to  Ben.     But  I 
says : 

"Oh,  of  course!  She's  a  little  bit  rebel. 
Ben's  a  good  bit  secessionist — when  there  are 
no  soldiers  in  blue  uniforms  about.  That  ac 
counts  for  it." 

"I  expect  they  sit  together  on  the  top  rail 
of  the  fence,  like  a  couple  of  crows,"  says 
Dave,  "and  talk  large  talk  about  the  war — fix 
it  all  up  their  way — " 

"Till  the  soldiers  come,"  laughs  I,  "then  they 
take  to  the  woods.  Well,  Davy,"  I  goes  on, 
like  I  was  distressed,  "she's  here,  the  second 
hand  by-marriage  female  cousin,  I  can  not  tell 
a  lie,  and,  therefore  and  henceforth  and  more 
over,  I  can't  keep  you.  There's  no  room.  Back 
you  go  to  Dixie,"  and  I  turns  him  around  like 
I  was  aiming  him  south. 

"Ain't  the  second-hand  female  cousin  by 
marriage  a  rebel?"  asks  Dave.  "You— 

"A-yes,"  says  I. 

"Under  this  Union  roof!    Phew!    What?" 

"Just  a  female  one,"  snickers  I. 
68 


DAVE 

"Down  in  Dixie  they're  more  fighty  than  the 
male  ones.  Gosh — they  kiss  and  run  their 
sweethearts  off  to  get  shot.  They  hug  their 
brothers — and  push  'em  in  it.  They  make  red- 
\vhite-and-red  flags  out  of  their  clothes  and 
climb  poles  to  put  'em  up.  If  it  was  that  way 
up^iere  we'd  lick  'em.  But,  as  it  ain't — they'll 
lick  us.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  women  Virginia 
wouldn't  have  seceded.  But  they  got  after  the 
men  and  pushed  'em  clean  through  it.  If  I 
hadn't  got  out  between  two  days  they  was  go 
ing  to  push  me  into  something.  I  don't  know 
what  it  was.  Some  of  the  boys  say  they  smelled 
tar.  Well — I  hate  tar  except  on  an  axle. 
Gosh!  I  saw  three  men  hanging  to  trees  as  I 
took  a  walk  northward  in  the  moonlight.  I 
was  so  scared  that  I  forgot  to  go  back  and 
kept  on  here.  I  don't  want  anything  to  do 
with  female  rebels.  They  frighten  me.  They're 
too  rebly.  They  ain't  satisfied  with  just 
speeches  and  singing — like  the  men.  They 
want  to  see  and  hear  the  real  boom-a-lally- 
booms.  I'll  just  keep  on  going  till  I  get  to 
69 


WAR 

Washington.  I'll  bet  Father  Abraham'll  be 
gladder  to  see  me  than  you  are.  He's  glad  to 
see  most  any  one  that's  fighty  like  me  nowa 
days.  I  guess  they've  all  gone  back  on  the  poor 
old  man,  and  he  can't  lick  the  South  without 
help.  And  suppose  I  get  shot  full  of  holes — 
it'll  be  his  fault — and  how'll  you  like  the  wind 
blowing  through  a  nice  son  of  yours — woo ! — 
all  on  account  of  a  second-hand  cousin?" 

"I'd  rather  have  you  air-tight,"  says  I,  and 
we  both  laughed  hearty,  at  the  joke. 

"Say,  dad,"  whispers  Dave,  "if  we  can't  get 
shut  of  one  another,  maybe  we  can  get  shut  of 
the  second-hand  cousin  by  marriage.  Not?" 

"Maybe,"  says  I.    "How?" 

"There's  jobs  for  her  all  through  Virginia," 
says  Dave:  "hospital,  sewing  cartridge  bags, 
making  coffee  out  of  rye  and  chicory,  mold 
ing  bullets,  making  uniforms,  talking  devilish 
patriotic — to  make  the  men  fighty.  She  can 
have  her  choice.  Whichever  she  does  best. 
Virginia's  really  the  place  for  her.  They're 
mighty  busy  rebelling  down  there." 


DAVE 

"You  ask  her,  Dave,"  says  I. 

"All  right,  I  will,"  says  Dave.  "If  she  goes, 
I'll  stay.  If  she  stays,  I'll  go.  I  expect  she 
has  the  usual  requirements — store  teeth,  large 
hands  and  feet,  whopper  jaw,  spectacles?" 

"She  has  all  of  them,"  says  I,  "and  others, 

too  humorous  to  mention." 

f 
"Well,  get  out  with  the  second-hand  cousin," 

says  Dave,  after  a  while.  "Why  are  we  wast 
ing  time  with  her?  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is 
the  evil  thereof.  Where's  old  Jon  ?  He's  worth 
several  thousand  second-hand  cousins.  I  want 
to  go  fishing  with  him — so's  he  can  catch  'em 
and  I  can  carry  'em  home.  Observe !" 

And  he  cut  a  pigeon  wing,  stamped  hard  on 
the  floor,  like  nigger  shows,  and  sung : 

" — Police  he  came  to  mend  the  job — 
He  ate  the  corn  and  all  the  cob— 
The  same  as  any  other  hog — 
A-pulling  off  the  green  corn! 
O-pulling  off  the  green  corn! 
O-fetch  along  the  demijohn! 
O-come  along,  my  yellow  gal, 
I'll  meet  you  in  the  morning ! 

71 


WAR 

"Can't  you  come  ? 

Oh,  yes,  I  kin — 
Same  as  any  other  thing — 
Pulling  off  the  green  corn !" 

Such  foolishness !  I'd  have  got  mad  at  any 
body  but  Dave.  And  just  then  he  was  so 
handsome  and  ruddy  that  I  was  glad  of  him 
— glad  that  he  was  alive — happy — my  son ! 
Every  time  I  looked  at  him  I  am  reminded  of 
David  in  the  Bible.  And  I  thought  what  a  pity 
it  was  that  such  gay  and  handsome  young  fel 
lows  were  going  to  war,  North  and  South,  to 
get  shot,  or  cut  with  sabers  or  bayonets,  maybe 
killed,  maybe  left  to  lie,  bloating  in  the  sun, 
like  dead  cattle.  North  or  South — it  was  hor 
rible. 

"Dave,"  I  says,  thinking,  too,  of  that  night 
and  Jon  and  Evelyn,  "don't  you  think  of  going 
to  war  on  either  side.  I  want  you  here." 

And  Dave  answers,  smiling  and  soft : 

"All  right,  daddy.     I  ain't  in  no  hurry,  if 
you  ain't.    I'll  stay  with  you  till  I  grow  up." 
72 


DAVE 

"Honest,  Dave?"  says  I. 

"Honest,  daddy,"  says  Dave.  "Now  that 
I'm  out  of  Virginia  I'll  have  a  real  good  chance 
to  finish  growing.  But  I  don't  think  that  any 
body  who  lives  down  there'll  ever  grow  up,  but 
be  cut  off — a  good  lot  of  'em — in  the  days  of 
their  youth.  When  the  war  is  over  they'll 
have  to  start  another  population." 

"Is  it  really  as  bad  as  that?"  I  asks. 

"It's  worse,"  says  Dave.  "Nothing  but  war 
and  rumors  of  war — and  a  little  eating  and 
sleeping  now  and  then,  when  they  happen  to 
think  of  it.  No  one  farms  or  works  or  earns 
anything.  Everybody  lives  on  the  others." 

"Dave,"  I  says,  "I'm  right  glad  you  came  up 
— and  didn't  obey  me  for  once." 

"Once !"  laughs  Dave.  "When  was  that?  I 
don't  remember  ever  obeying  you." 

''That's  so,"  says  I,  "and  I'm  not  mad  about 
it  now.  You'll  promise  not  to  go  to  war  on 
either  side?" 

"Not  either  or  both  sides,"  laughs  Dave. 

73 


.WAR 

"Thank  you,  Davy,"  says  I,  pleased.  "Shake 
hands  on  it?" 

"You  bet  me  I  will,"  says  Dave.  "I'm  not 
much  of  a  fighter,  anyhow.  I  expect  I'm  too 
lazy  to  lick  or  get  licked.  But  I'm  not  going 
to  war  unless  there's  some  one  behind  me  push 
ing.  Forget  it.  They  can't  make  me.  I'm  not 
of  age.  I  don't  know  what  it's  about.  And 
where  in  hell's  Jonthy  ?  Here  I  come  home  to 
fish  with  him,  and  he  don't  come  home  and 
fish  with  me.  It  won't  be  like  old  times  till 
Jonthy  takes  me  on  his  back  fishing — will  it, 
daddy?" 

"No,"  says  I. 

"And  catches  all  the  fish  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Daddy,"  says  Dave,  "you've  heard  of  songs 
without  words,  I  expect?" 

"Yes,  Davy." 

"Well,  daddy,  when  I  fish,  that's  fishing 
without  fish — not?" 

And   he    sings    another   song — brought   up 
from  Virginia,  I  expect. 
74 


DAVE 

"Oh,  so  gaily  we  float, 

On  the  water  so  blue, 
In  our  tight  little  boat 

And  our  jolly  good  crew — " 

"Daddy,"  he  runs  on,  "there's  no  one  in  the 
whole  of  Virginia  like  old  Jonthy — maybe  not 
in  ^the  whole  world.  I  have  an  idea  that 
when  the  Lord  got  away  from  here — just  here 
— on  this  farm — you  know — the  good  stuff 
gave  out  and  he  had  to  adulterate  it.  Where 
is  he,  anyhow?  'Oh,  tell  me  where  my  Jon- 
thy's  gone !'  " 

"I  expect  he'll  be  around  in  a  little.  Can't 
you  be  satisfied  with  your  father  for  a  minute 
or  two  ?"  says  I. 

"Certainly,  father!"  says  Dave,  in  fun,  of 
course.  "Ich  Hebe  dich,  du  liebst  mich,  wir 
lieben  den  Jonathan — aber  nicht  die  second 
hand  female  cousin  by  marriage — ain't? 
Jonthy,  Jonthy,  Jonthy!"  he  yells,  "ich  bin 
dort — del'  Bruder  von  Virginia!  Komm 
schwindt!" 


IX 

WHEN  EVELYN  CAME 

WELL,  just  then,  Evelyn,  hearing  the 
racket,  I  expect,  came  in.  Dave 
thought  it  was  Jon  and  hid  behind  the  door  and 
jumped  out  and  yelled  and  flung  his  arms  about 
her  all  at  once.  Gosh-a-mighty !  He  looked 
like  he'd  been  shot — he  was  so  surprised — and 
close!  And  Evelyn — she  was  as  scared  and 
trembly  and  fighty  as  a  little  heifer — and  after 
ward  tried  to  cry  and  get  mad  and  look  ugly 
— all  at  once.  But  it  was  no  use.  Dave  held 
her  by  the  hands  and  apologized  like  a  gentle 
man  of  the  highest  kind.  He  bowed  and 
scraped  like  she  was  a  queen,  and  he  a  prince, 
and  called  her  "madame" !  But  he  didn't  let 
her  go.  And  Evelyn — at  last  she  just  stood 
still  and  listened,  like  his  voice  was  music  to 
her.  Then  she  managed  to  look — sidewise — 
76 


WHEN    EVELYN    CAME 

like  birds — and  Dave  caught  her  eyes  fairly  in 
his.  So,  for  a  minute.  Dave  looked  the  sor 
row  he  had  for  being  so  fresh.  She  looked 
something  I  had  never  seen  her  look  before. 
Then  she  hung  her  head  and  blushed  and  trem 
bled.  The  business — the  great  and  wonderful 
business  of  love — was  done  that  quick!  Dave 
had  just  mastered  her  by  his  gay,  open,  care 
less,  manly  ways.  Broke  her  that  quick — like 
he  use'  to  break  colts.  Jon,  he  could  manage 
animals  by  just  persuading  them.  But  Dave 
had  no  time  for  that.  And  he  made  them  do 
what  he  wanted  without  any  persuading — 
which  is  much  better,  for  a  horse,  anyway. 
And  women  are  a  good  deal  like  horses,  not? 

Soon  Dave's  big  white  teeth  begun  to  show, 
till  he  laughed  right  out. 

"I'll  bet  seventeen  cows,  and  a  calf,  for  good 
measure,  that  this  is  my  cousin  Evelyn  that's 
crowded  me  out  of  house  and  home  and  left 
me  nothing  but  the  haymow !" 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "whopper  jaw,  store  teeth 
and  all,  ready  for  the  hospital — " 
77 


WAR 

Dave  put  his  hand  on  my  mouth  so  that  it 
hurt. 

"Yes,  I'm  that  poor  beggar,"  says  Evelyn. 
"If  they  hadn't  given  me  your  room  and 
things,  you'd  have  found  me  at  the  poor-house, 
cousin  Did-Dave.  Would  you  have  liked  that, 
cousin  Did-Dave?" 

She  stumbled  twice  on  the  "Dave".  But 
Dave  had  no  trouble  with  "Evelyn"!  It 
seemed  sweet  in  his  mouth. 

"No,"  says  Dave,  "I  wouldn't  have  liked 
that.  But,  now,  if  you  don't  take  me  in  part 
nership,  I'll  have  to  go — to  the  haymow — a — 
and  you  won't  like  that !" 

"Hi — how  can  I,  Did-Dave?"  asks  Evelyn. 
"Partnership?" 

Dave  just  breathes  his  answer: 

"I  don't  know.  It  is  all  so  sudden — and 
wonderful.  Some  day  I  will  tell  you.  May  I  ?" 

"Yes,"  says  Evelyn. 

"We'll  be  comrades,  Evelyn !  We'll  ride  and 
swim  and  hunt  and  fish — always  together! 
Will  you  like  that?" 

78 


WHEN    EVELYN    CAME 

"Oh,  yes !"  says  Evelyn. 

"And  then  we'll  see  the  roses  bloom  in  these 
cheeks — lovely  enough  now — but  think  of 
them  with  roses  in !" 

And  he  kissed  them  both — just  a  touch  on 
each. 

Evelyn  started  back,  angry,  but  when  she 
looked  and  saw  his  glorious  young  face  she 
returned — maybe  for  more! 

The  sweet  way  he  talked  to  her — of  the 
things  they  were  to  do — the  happiness  they 
were  to  have !  Presently,  like  she  didn't  know 
she  was  doing  it,  Evelyn  inched  up  and  hung 
her  arm  in  Dave's,  as  happy  as  he.  You  have 
no  idea  and  I  am  too  poor  a  scholar  to  tell  it. 
He  had  won  her  like  with  magic.  I  felt  that 
she  would  follow  Dave,  like  a  dog,  to  the  ends 
o£  the  world.  Her  master  had  come. 

"And  what  am  I  to  teach  you  in  return  for 
all  these  beautiful  things?"  asks  Evelyn,  at 
last. 

"Many,  many  more  things  than  I  can  teach 
you,  cousin,  dear,"  says  Dave,  taking  her  face 
79 


WAR 

in  his  hands  and  questioning  her  eyes.  "Some 
I  can  not  tell  you  now,  because  they  have  taken 
no  form  save  great  joy.  Some  are  too  dear  to 
speak  of  yet.  But,  I  know,  already,  that  I 
shall  be  graver,  kinder,  more  considerate  of 
others.  Perhaps  you  may  even  teach  me,  out 
of  your  own  sad  lot,  what  sorrow  is.  Now  I 
do  not  know  it.  You  hardly  believe  that,  and 
I'm  ashamed  to  confess  it.  But  daddy  and 
Jon  have  kept  all  sorrow  from  me,  while 
you  have  probably  had  my  share.  Perhaps  I 
can  help  to  lighten  yours.  Or  bear  them  with 
you.  I  wonder  why  I'm  so  serious?  I  never 
was  before,  was  I,  daddy?" 

"Take  care,  Davy,"  says  I.  "You're  going 
mighty  fast.  And  there's  rapids  in  the  river 
below  you !  Mebby  falls !" 

I  wonder  if  he  heard  me?  I  think  not.  But 
that  was  funny — wasn't  it?  To  think  of  that! 

"Come,  help  me  to  find  Jonthy !"  he  says  to 
Evelyn. 

She'd  inched  up  so  close  to  him  that,  I  sup 
pose,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  get  closer. 
80 


WHEN    EVELYN    CAME 

But  the  moment  he  asks  her  to  help  hunt  Jon 
she  smiles  and  gives  him  her  hand  and  they 
start  away. 

Now,  ain't  a  woman  funny  ?  I  thought  when 
Dave  said  that  about  taking  her  to  Jon 
she  would  be  scared  and  guilty  and  not  go. 
Not  at  all.  She  never  thought  about  that.  In 
fact,  this  Evelyn  that  Dave  had  discovered  was 
entirely  new — even  to  herself,  I  think.  Who'd 
have  thought  of  the  same  Evelyn  who  thun 
dered  to  Jon,  that  night,  about  the  great  cause, 
forgetting  all  about  it — and  Jon,  too! — the 
minute  Dave  takes  hold  of  her  hands ! 

Before  they  got  out  of  sight  I  heard  Dave 
say: 

" — And,  then,  we'll  get  married !" 

"Yes !"  says  Evelyn,  as  happy  as  he. 

"'And  live  happy  ever  after!" 

"For  ever  and  ever !"  laughs  Evelyn. 

Well,  as  you  can  see,  they  weren't  wasting  a 
minute. 

Presently  I  hears  'em  all  three  coming  up 
from  the  barn  together,  where,  I  suppose,  they 
81 


WAR 

had  found  Jon.    Evelyn  was  between  the  two. 
Dave  was  swinging  her  one  hand  and  singing : 

"Dear  Evelina, 

Sweet  Evelina, 
My  love  for  you  shall  never,  never  die !" 

Jon  looked  as  joyous  as  any  of  them — 
holding  Evelyn's  other  hand — stiff  and  sol 
emn.  But,  somehow,  I  pitied  him.  And  it  was 
strange,  afterward,  that  I  always  thought  of 
my  two  boys  as  poor  old  Jon  and  happy  little 
Dave.  Sorry  for  the  one  and  glad  for  the 
other. 

And  that  was  my  trouble — seeing  my  two 
boys  in  love  with  one  girl,  and  that  one  girl  in 
love  with  only  one  of  them !  What  was  I  to 
do?  What  I  might  do  for  Dave  would  be 
against  Jon — and  vice  versa.  So  I  did  nothing ; 
I  couldn't.  My  hands  were  tied. 


X 

THE    PICNIC 

ONE  day  Evelyn  proposed  that  we  all 
have  a  picnic  to  Rostrom  Rock  over 
there.  But  she  was  trembly  and  excited 
about  it  in  a  way  I  never  saw  before. 

"It'll  take  us  all  day  to  go  and  come,"  says  I. 

"All  the  better,"  says  she.  "Betsy'll  bring 
all  of  her  best  pies — and  leave  the  armies  to  do 
without  them  for  one  day.  Let  us  hurry  to  get 
off  early." 

"Is  Betsy  to  go,  too?"  asks  I. 

"Everybody — even  the  hireland !"  cries  Eve 
lyn,  dancing — crazy — with  unusual  excitement. 

I  wasn't  exactly  pleased  to  eat  ants  with  my 
pie.  But  Dave  and  Jon  didn't  care  for  a 
few  ants  more  or  less — if  Evelyn  went  with 
'em.  Betsy  was  against  me,  saying  that  the 
idea  was  providential,  inasmuch  as  she  had 
83 


WAR 

baked  a  fine  lot  of  gooseberry  pies !     And  not 
a  soldier  had  come  after  'em  yet. 

But  I  said  no! — and  put  my  foot  down,  and 
Evelyn  said  yes  and  put  hers  down. 

And  so  it  stood — both  stubborn. 

Then  Evelyn  backed  down  herself — sudden. 

"No,  we  won't  go,"  she  says.  "I'm  afraid. 
I  daren't  do  it.  I  won't— I  won't  do  it !" 

And  she  starts  away  to  the  house,  and  up  to 
her  room.  I  saw  her  look  out  the  window,  and 
swing  her  arms. 

But  she  had  hardly  reached  it  before  she 
came  running  back,  scared  and  excited,  saying : 

"Yes — come  on.  We  got  to  go.  It's  or 
ders." 

"Don't  you  feel  well,  Evelyn?"  asks  Jon. 

"No,"  says  Evelyn,  then,  "yes." 

"We'd  better  not  go,"  says  Jon. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do — I  don't  know 
what — yes,  we've  got  to  do  it.  If  I  disobey— 

She  didn't  waver  any  more.  But  I  was  still 
stubborn.  Though  after  Betsy  said  gooseberry 
pies  I  had  wobbled. 

84 


THE    PICNIC 

"I  hardly  think  there  will  be  any  left,  after 
the  picnic,"  says  Betsy,  and  that  she  had  about 
used  up  the  crop. 

That  finished  me.  Gooseberry  pies — Betsy's 
kind — with  molasses  instead  of  sugar  in — was 
my  besetting  sin  from  my  youth  up.  The 
bo^s'  mother  used  to  set  'em  up  for  me  when  I 
went  to  see  her  nights,  to  catch  me.  Well, 
they  done  it — notwithstanding  many  a  colic — 
and  the  Jamaica  ginger  she  gave  me  for  the 
way  home.  And  she  had  taught  Betsy  to  make 
'em  her  way.  So  I  went  on  that  picnic  just  to 
get  a  last  piece  of  gooseberry  pie!  And  it 
was  the  last  for  years  to  come.  Eight  miles 
going  and  eight  miles  coming  for  three — no 
four,  pieces  of  pie — and  a  pain !  What  do  you 
think  of  that  for  an  old  fool!  But  I  wasn't  so 
old  then  as  I  am  now — though  even  now — I 
fall  to  gooseberry  pie ! 

The    hireland    filled    the    hay   wagon    with 

straw,  and  we  all  sat  on  the  bottom.     I  never 

saw  Dave  so  happy.     He  just  stretched  out  in 

the  hay  with  his  back  against  the  seat  aside  of 

85 


Evelyn,  and  enjoyed  her.  And  she  seemed  to 
enjoy  Dave.  Though  now  and  then  a  funny 
scare  would  come  over  her  face  like  she  re 
membered  something  and  she  would  look  back 
the  way  we  had  come.  For,  as  we  were  climb 
ing  upward  most  of  the  time,  you  could  look 
back  at  our  house  a  couple  miles  of  the  way. 
She  made  Jon  come  to  her  other  side. 

And  once  I  heard  her  whisper,  when  she  was 
scared  that  way : 

"Oh,  God !  I  hope  they  won't !  I  hope  they 
can't!" 

"Won't  and  can't  what  ?"  asks  I. 

"Beat  me!" 

Right  away  she  laughs — and  begins  a  game 
with  old  Jonthy. 

It's  piling  hands  on  top  of  one  another  and 
pulling  them  from  under  and  getting  caught 
and  kissed.  It  -didn't  take  Jon  long  to  catch 
her — for  she  was  always  looking  back  that 
way. 

"Kiss  her,  Jonthy,"  laughs  Dave,  and  Jon 
he  kissed  the  hand  he  had  caught. 
86 


THE    PICNIC 

"No,"  says  Dave.  "You're  entitled  to  one 
right  here — " 

Dave  kissed  her  smack  on  the  lips. 

"One,  to  your  credit,  Jonthy,"  says  Dave. 

And  then,  just  absently,  when  she  was  look 
ing  back  that  way,  and  Jon  was  looking  up  at 
her,  she  catches  him ! 

9> 

"Now  you  got  to  kiss  him !"  says  Dave,  and 
holds  Jon  fast  while  he  makes  Evelyn  kiss  him. 
She  don't  know  she's  doing  it — always  looking 
back. 

Well,  you'd  think  if  there  was  anything  to 
show  on  Jon's  face  it  would  be  blushes.  But 
he  closed  his  eyes  and  got  pale  as  a  sheet. 

And  then  he  made  Dave  play  and  get  caught 
— and  even  me !  And  Betsy ! 

Jonthy  got  away  into  a  corner  of  the  wagon 
and  lay  there  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his 
face  still  pale,  as  if  he  wanted  to  keep  what 
he  had. 

When  we  got  about  a  mile  or  so  from  the 
house — down  over  some  hills — where  you 
couldn't  even  see  the  chimleys,  Evelyn  stops 
87 


WAR 

looking  back  and  is  happier — so  happy  that  we 
all  had  a  nice  time — even  the  hireland. 

Well,  I  hadn't  wanted  to  go,  but,  after  all,  it 
was  fine.  I  fell  in  the  Ice- Spring,  and  a  snake 
bit  Jon.  Otherwise  it  was  a  good  picnic. 

Coming  back,  it  was  just  like  all  picnics — all 
was  tired  and  we  lay  on  our  backs  in  the  yel 
low  straw  and  let  the  hireland  drive.  The 
three  youngsters,  with  little  help  from  me, 
were  happy  as  happy,  and  sang  a  lot  of  the 
old  songs  that  took  me  back  to  my  wife  in  her 
grave :  Annie  Laurie,  Her  Bright  Smile  Haunts 
Me  Still,  Home  Sweet  Home,  and  so  on,  until 
we  begun  to  get  near  home.  Then  every  little 
while  Evelyn  would  rise  and  look  down  the 
valley — until  about  that  same  mile  from  home, 
when  she  shivered  a  bit  after  looking,  and  slid 
down  into  the  straw,  cuddled  up  between  Jona 
than  and  Dave,  and  began  to  cry. 

"What  makes  you  cry,  dear?"  asks  Dave. 

She  said  nothing. 

"Often,"  says  nice  old  Jonthy,  always  ready 
with  oil  on  the  water,  "women  cry  for — joy !" 


THE    PICNIC 

"Yes !"  sobs  Evelyn. 

"And,  it  has  been  a  very  happy  day,  hasn't 
it,  sister,  deal  ?''  says  old  Goliath. 

Evelyn  nods  and  slips  an  arm  about  each  of 
the  boys. 

The  sun  was  just  setting.  We  were  driving 
to\^rd  it.  The  three  faces  were  before  me. 
Jon's  was  white — with  the  eyes  staring  and  the 
hands  clenched. 

Evelyn  was  scared — and  breathing  hard  and 
fast — harder  and  faster  as  we  got  nearer  home. 
Her  hands  were  clenched,  too — and  uncon 
sciously  she  drew  the  boys  as  hard  to  her  as 
she  could,  as  if  they  were  both  to  protect  her 
from  something. 

Dave's  face  was  full  of  pure — almost  child 
ish — joy!  Just  nothing  but  joy!  He  was 
singing — all  alone  this  time.  But  he  had  a 
bully  big  tenor  voice  and  I  liked  to  hear  him. 
The  nearest  neighbors  didn't. 

"Dear  Evelina, 
Sweet  Evelina, 
My  love  for  vou  shall  never,  never,  die !" 

89 


WAR 

Then,  night  fell.  At  the  last  I  could  still  see 
the  eyes  of  Jon  and  Evelyn  staring  out  of  the 
dusk.  And  Dave's  voice,  softer  and  softer, 
kept  on  singing : 

" — My  love  for  you  shall  never,  never  die !" 

So  we  came  home.  It  was  very  dark.  The 
hireland  told  us  to  stand  still  and  hold  the 
horses  till  he  got  a  lantern.  My  boys  stood, 
one  on  each  side  of  Evelyn.  Dave  was  singing 
the  last  strain : 

" — never,  never  die !" 

We  started  away  to  the  house  as  soon  as  the 
hireland  got  his  lantern  going.  Evelyn  left  the 
boys  and  took  my  arm.  For  some  reason  we 
were  all  very  quiet.  It  was  queer. 

I  thought  I  saw  several  shadows  move  away 
from  the  house  in  the  darkness. 

"What  is  that,  Evelyn?"  I  asks.  "Men? 
What  are  they  doing  here?" 

I  was  a  little  excited. 

Evelyn  quiets  me  and  says : 
90 


THE    PICNIC 

"Sh !  No.  I  thi — think  it's  the  cows.  They 
were  lying  down  and  we  disturbed  them.  Yes 
— it  was  the  cows." 

"Not  on  your  life,"  says  I.  "The  cows 
wouldn't  run  for  us.  Anyhow,  it  would  be  the 
first  time  they  ever  got  out  of  the  way.  They'd 
let^Tou  fall  over  'em  first.  We  got  to  be  care 
ful  about  men  around  the  place.  I  didn't  think 
of  it  till  now.  But  there's  been  no  one  about 
all  day!  It's  war-times,  Evelyn,  and,  if  you 
ever  see  any  one  about  you  must  tell  me." 

"Yes,  daddy,  dear,"  she  says,  excitedly. 

"We'll  look  around  and  see  whether  they've 
taken  anything,"  says  I. 

Things  looked  queer,  even  in  the  dark.  And, 
first  I  know,  I  tumbles  over  a  tree ! 

Well!  Some  one  had  cut  down  the  finest 
oak  in  the  circle  around  the  house! — on  the 
south  side! 

"My  great-grandfather  Hiliary  planted  that 
tree,"  says  I,  hot  and  hard,  "and  it  would  be 
as  much  as  his  life  would  be  worth  for  me  to 
find  the  rascal  who  did  it !" 


.WAR 

Dave  smells  the  chips  and  says : 

"It's  just  been  finished !" 

Jon  rubs  his  hand  over  the  stump. 

"The  sap  is  still  as  thin  as  water,"  says  he. 
"It  hasn't  been  down  ten  minutes.  I've  cut 
down  enough  trees  to  know !" 

"Come,"  says  Dave,  "he's  not  far  away. 
That  was  him — or  them — daddy  saw.  Come 
on,  we  can  get  him!" 

He  starts  away,  fighty  as  a  young  bull.  But 
Evelyn  clutches  him. 

Then  she  acts  as  if  she  didn't  know  why 
she  done  it. 

"Don't — don't — leave  me  alone,"  she  says, 
at  last,  and  the  way  she  was  trembling  proved 
that  she  oughtn't  to  be  left  alone. 

Jonthy,  he  comes  up  and  takes  hold  of  Dave. 

"Yes,"  he  says,  "there  is  something  better 
than  trees — after  all — here  to  be  anxious 
about.  We've  forgotten  it  in  our  anger." 

Of  course,  Dave  is  scared  about  Evelyn  and 
gives  it  up — killing  the  marauders. 
92 


THE    PICNIC 

Jon  and  Dave  had  things  to  say,  neverthe 
less,  not  warranted  by  Scripture,  or  their 
training,  about  secessionists  and  sympathizers 
getting  even.  But  Evelyn  said  nothing — only 
I  could  feel  her  shaking. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  business,  Eve 
lyn**"  asks  I.  "You  got  a  good  head." 

"It  was  a  bi — beautiful  tri — tree,  daddy, 
dear,"  she  says,  "and — and  I  think  I  will  go  to 
bed!" 

And  she  starts  right  off,  without  another 
word,  crying  like  a  baby. 

We  were  all  stumped  for  a  minute,  and  then, 
nice  old  Jon,  as  usual,  fixes  it. 

"She  loved  that  tree,  daddy  and  Dave," 
and  he  puts  his  arms  around  both  of  us,  and 
I  know  he  was  smiling  that  inward  smile  of 
his,  "it  was  right  before  her  window.  She 
loved  it  just  as  she  loves  us — and,  just  as  if 
one  of  us  should  be  cut  down  in  his  strength, 
she  weeps  for  it!  Come!  We  can't  quite 
weep.  But  we  can  understand  her  weeping — 
can't  we,  daddy  and  Dave  ?  She  loved  it !" 
93 


WAR 

Yes,  says  Dave,  and  yes,  says  I.  But  I  don't 
think  either  of  us  understood  that  like  dear 
old  Jonthy  did. 

The  idea  didn't  occur  to  me  until  I  saw  it 
accidentally,  some  time  after — that  there  was 
now  a  clear  space  between  Crider  and  us !  He 
could  see  our  chimley-tops.  From  our  garret 
window  I  could  see  his.  And  even  then  I 
didn't  know  what  to  do  with  the  idea. 

But  Jon  did. 

He  said  that  since  our  quarrel,  about  which 
I  had  told  him,  Crider  was  angry.  He  was  a 
bad  man  to  have  against  one,  and  had  got 
even  by  doing  for  us  what  we  had  thought  sus 
picious  when  he  did  it  for  himself. 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "that's  just  it — the  fire-wood 
business —  Well,  I'll  let  him  know  about  it 
• — maybe  with  a  club! — right  off  the  old  tree!" 

"No,  no,"  laughs  Jon.     "No  fighting  just 

now.     No  more  enemies  than  we  must  make. 

Keep  the  peace,  daddy,  so  that  we  keep  our 

heads,"  laughs  Jon.    "We  need  'em  now — and 

94 


THE    PICNIC 

here.     Especially  if  our  neighbors  don't  like 
our  trees." 

And  as  that  seemed  good  advice,  I  let  Crider 
pass  a  number  of  times  when  I  could  have 
tripped  him  over  the  bank  into  Mud  Creek — 
where  he  belonged. 


XI 

OF    THE    CHANGE    WHICH    DAVE    BROUGHT 

DAVE'S  coming  was  the  beginning  of  a 
great  change  all  around.  He  and  Eve 
lyn  never  noticed  it.  I  had  heard  tell,  before, 
that  love  was  the  most  selfish  thing  on  earth, 
and  didn't  believe  it.  But  I  could  see  it  now, 
right  before  my  eyes.  Evelyn  took  to  the  rid 
ing  and  fishing  and  swimming,  just  as  hard  as 
Dave  said  she  would.  At  last  she  could  do 
them  all  as  well  as  Dave  himself — at  least,  so 
he  said.  And  it  did  for  Evelyn  all  that  Dave 
had  said  it  would.  She  got  strong  and  graceful 
as  a  deer,  and  it  was  a  sight,  I  can  tell  you,  to 
see  them  tearing  up  the  Red  Rock  Road,  early 
in  the  morning,  while  the  way  was  still  too 
damp  for  dust,  she  on  Dave's  black,  and  he  on 
another  black  he'd  traded  in  to  match  her.  I 
never  saw  such  riding  anywhere.  I  use'  to 
96 


THE  CHANGE  DAVE  BROUGHT 

sneak  up  to  the  Chestnut  Woods,  where  the 
road  ran  through  a  cut,  just  to  see  'em  fly  past 
— laughing  and  yelling,  and  playing  monkey 
shines,  and  making  believe  to  outrun  each  other 
but  never  getting  far  apart.  They  wasn't  only 
two,  they  was  four.  And  the  horses  knew  it 
as^well  as  any  one.  Yes,  Dave  brought  the 
roses  to  her  cheeks — like  he  said — and  some 
thing,  I  expect,  they  hadn't  counted  on  so 
much :  a  happy  hungry  look  that  wasn't  satis 
fied  without  Dave  was  right  there  to  satisfy  it. 

And  another  thing  they  hadn't  bargained  for 
was  nice  old  Jon.  When  any  one  was  look 
ing  he  smiled  and  kept  busy.  But  when  he 
thought  he  was  alone,  the  look  of  one  de 
serted  came  over  him.  Of  course,  Dave  didn't 
know  anything.  But  Evelyn  did,  and  I  often 
wondered  if  she  never  thought  of  that  night 
under  the  plum  trees.  I  don't  think  she  ever 
did.  Yes,  love  is  selfish. 

One  day  Dave  and  Evelyn  came  running  in 
to  dinner,  just  off  the  horses,  with  extra  red 
cheeks,    and    I    saw    the    old   yearning    come 
97 


WAR 

strong  into  Jon's  eyes.  Sometimes  he  couldn't 
keep  it  out.  I  expect  Dave  saw  it,  too. 

"No,  no,  Jonthy,"  he  says,  "you  can't  have 
'em.  They're  mine.  I  made  'em." 

"What?"  asks  I.  I  suppose  I  am  a  little 
dull  at  the  head — like  the  soldiers  said. 

"These !"  says  Dave,  and  up  and  kissed  both 
her  cheeks. 

Evelyn  clapped  both  hands  on  'em,  like  she 
was  ashamed — but  happy.  Dave  just  took  her 
hands  away  and  did  it  again. 

"Yes,  Jonthy,  dear,  they're  mine.  In  fact, 
Jonthy,  the  whole  girl's  mine — from  here  to 
here.  Ain't  you  glad?  Ain't  you,  daddy?" 

He  motioned  from  her  head  to  her  feet. 

"Yes,"  says  Jon,  dragging  it  out  by  the  roots, 
"I  am  glad,  Dave,  old  boy!" 

He  slaps  Dave  on  the  back  and  laughs,  but 
he  couldn't  go  any  further. 

"I  forgot  to  feed  the  cows!"  he  says,  and 
rushes  out! 

Jon  couldn't  stand  any  more  of  that.  He 
managed  for  a  while  to  be  about  with  them  as 
98 


THE  CHANGE  DAVE  BROUGHT 

often  as  usual,  and  smiled  as  much,  but  never 
for  more  than  a  minute  at  a  time — too  little  for 
anything  to  happen  in.  In  fact,  after  a  while, 
he  arranged  to  be  busy  when  we  ate,  pleading 
that  in  case  the  war  brought  us  trouble  we 
ought  to  have  everything  ready  to  abandon — 
whjph  was  true — because  it  was  at  the  table 
that  things  like  the  rose  business,  mostly,  hap 
pened.  And,  after  a  while,  he  always  ate  alone 
— and  no  one  missed  him  but  me.  And  I  saw 
that  this,  hard  as  it  was  for  old  Jon,  was  best 
— even  for  him.  Yes,  love  is  selfish.  They 
didn't  notice. 

Finally,  Jon  was  in  the  fields  or  the  barn  all 
the  time  and  we  saw  almost  nothing  of  him. 
I  would  take  most  of  his  meals  out  to  him. 
And  according  to  Jon,  so  that  he  might  not  dis 
turb  the  rest  of  us,  he  would  often  stop  at  the 
barn  and  sleep  with  the  hireland.  At  last  he 
slept  in  the  barn  all  the  time — just,  I  think, 
so  that  Dave  could  be  in  his  bed,  and  near 
Evelyn.  At  first  I  could  hardly  believe  that 
Dave  would  let  it  go  at  that.  But  he  went  and 
99 


WAR 

slept  in  Jon's  bed  without  so  much  as  a 
"Thank-you-sir,"  and  let  Jon  sleep  in  the  barn 
with  Wasser  and  the  hireland.  In  fact,  he 
never  noticed  it. 

So  it  went  on  till  I  thought  Jonathan  the 
loneliest  boy  in  the  whole  world,  and  Dave  the 
happiest — and  most  thoughtless.  And  the 
more  Dave  forgot  Jon,  the  more  Jon  remem 
bered  Dave.  He  just  brooded  over  him,  like 
a  hen  with  one  little  chicken.  Dave  didn't  see 
anything  but  Evelyn.  But  I  saw  the  thousands 
of  little  things  Jon  put  in  the  way  of  Dave's 
happiness,  and  the  other  thousands  he  took 
out  of  it.  I  reckon  no  boy's  road  to  heaven 
was  ever  made  so  smooth. 

Like  this :  Dave  took  a  little  cold,  or  some 
thing,  and  got  hot  in  the  night.  Once  in  a 
while  Jon'd  sneak  in  the  house,  when  Dave 
was  asleep,  and  go  up  to  his  room  and 
look  at  him — just  stand  and  look.  When  I 
caught  him  at  it,  he  said  that  he'd  come  to  get 
some  of  his  things  in  the  room.  But  I  knew 
better.  He  came  to  look  at  Dave — nothing 
100 


THE  CHANGE  DAVE  BROUGHT 

less.  Else  why  were  there  tears  in  his  eyes? 
Do  you  suppose  he  cried  about  getting  his 
Sunday  coat  out  of  the  closet?  Well,  he  hap 
pened  to  come  that  night  Dave  was  hot.  He 
sees  his  flushed  face,  feels  his  pulse,  runs  out 
and  jumps  on  the  new  black  and  rides  to  town 

for  the  doctor.    Coming  back  the  black  jumped 

t> 
the  bars  and  run  in  the  open  stable  door  with 

the  bit  in  his  teeth  and  broke  Jon's  head.  It 
was  a  trick  Dave  taught  the  horse  that  Jon 
didn't  know  of.  Dave  used  to  lay  down  on  the 
side  of  her  neck. 

When  the  doctor  came  it  was  Jon  he  had 
to  fix  up.  He  was  out  of  his  head  a  good 
while.  Dave  and  Evelyn  stayed  with  him  and 
nursed  him  faithful,  and  I  thought  now  they 
would  take  notice  and  things  would  be  better. 
But  as  soon  as  Jon  got  better  he'd  make 
'em  go  out  for  a  walk — or  something — and 
soon  it  was  the  same  old  thing — and  they  let 
Jon  get  well  himself.  Jon  was  Dave's  guardian 
angel,  and  Dave  didn't  even  know  that  he  had 
one! 

101 


WAR 

And  what  was  I  to  do?  Do  you  think  I 
slept  all  night  and  every  night  in  the  midst  of 
this?  I  thought  of  a  thousand  ways  to  end 
it.  But  I  always  came  up  against  the  same 
stone  walls.  Helping  one  would  hurt  the 
other. 

Yet,  now,  when  Jon  got  about  again,  and  I 
must  see  his  sunken  blue  eyes,  and  his  broken 
and  unsteady  ways,  it  seemed  like  I  must  do 
something. 

"Jonthy,"  I  says — we  were  out  under  the 
plums  again — "it  is  time  we  had  some  talk." 

"Yes,  daddy,"  smiles  Jon,  taking  hold  of  my 
hand,  "go  on." 

"I  see  the  whole  thing,  Jonthy,  and  I  hate  to 
meddle,  but  I  must." 

"What  whole  thing?"  smiles  Jon. 

"That  Dave  has  forgotten  your  existence," 
says  I,  "and  that  you  remember  his  ten  times 
as  much  as  ever.  That  he's  taken  Evelyn — " 

"Ah,  hush,  daddy,"  says  Jon,  still  smiling, 
"would  you  say  a  word,  do  a  thing,  to  diminish 
that  wonderful  happiness?" 
1 02 


THE    CHANGE    DAVE    BROUGHT 

"Wouldn't  you?"  I  asks. 

"Not  a  word,  not  a  thing,"  smiles  Jon.  "On 
the  contrary,  dear  old  daddy,  I  spend  half 
the  time  I  ought  to  sleep  thinking  of  ways  to 
make  the  happiness  more  and  more  wonderful. 
I  thought  I  loved  her,  daddy.  I  told  her  it  was 
the  greatest  love  ever  man  had  for  woman. 
But,  daddy,  the  wonder  of  Dave's  love  makes 
me  ashamed  of  mine.  And  hers !  It  is  as  great 
as  his.  Why,  what  is  it  that  he  forgets  us? 
We  are  small  things  in  his  world.  And  how 
can  it  be  otherwise  ?  There  is  nothing  but  her 
for  him,  nothing  but  him  for  her.  Daddy,  I 
was  an  apprentice.  I  had  to  learn  love.  But 
Dave  is  it.  Didn't  you  notice  how  he  put  it 
on  like  a  garment  the  moment  he  saw  her? 
Well,  it  was  a  garment  that  was  waiting  for 
him  from  the  beginning  of  the  world.  It  didn't 
have  to  be  fitted — like  mine.  And  she !  When 
they  met  it  was,  at  last,  as  if  her  restless  mili 
tant  spirit  had  found  its  nest.  She  put  her 
head  upon  his  heart  and  slept." 
103 


WAR 

"No,  she  didn't  do  that,"  I  said.  "I  was 
there!" 

"Daddy,  dear,  I  mean,"  laughs  nice  old 
Jon,  "that,  there,  like  Christian,  in  Pilgrim's 
Progress,  which  I  am  sure  you  know,  she  laid 
down  all  her  burdens  and  was  at  rest.  Do  you 
understand  now?" 

"Yes,"  I  says  to  my  son,  "I  understand 
what  you  mean — though  it  didn't  happen ;  and 
thank  you,  Jonthy,  for  having  such  beautiful 
thoughts  about  Dave  and  Evelyn,  true  or  false, 
after  the  way  they  treat  you." 

"Ah,  the  way  they  treat  me!  If  they  didn't 
do  that,  it  would  not  be  the  wonderful  thing  it 
is.  The  way  they  treat  me !  Why,  daddy,  that 
is  the  thing  which  makes  me  most  glad !  That 
is  the  proof  that  it  is  wonderful.  Have  you 
never  experienced  the  heavenly  sensation  of 
giving  up  for  another — yes,  for  another  you 
love  more  than  yourself?" 

"Jonthy,"  says  I,  "here  you  go  out  of  my 
sight  and  hearing  again.  Return.  If  you 
104 


THE  CHANGE  DAVE  BROUGHT 

mean  the  happy-with-another  business,  no.  I 
had  the  chance  when  I  was  courting  your 
mother." 

"And  you  did  it?" 

"I  broke  his  head." 

"Ah,  but  he  wasn't  your  brother.     Yes,  I 

think,  if  any  one  but  Dave  had  taken  her,  I 

* 

would  break  his  head." 


XII 
DAVE'S  BUSINESS 

STRANGE  things  happen  in  war — like  I 
said — especially  when  one  lives  so  close 
to  it.  And  so,  funny  people  kept  coming  and 
going,  asking  funny  questions.  At  last  Evelyn 
said,  kind  of  shivery,  she'd  better  see  'em, 
they'd  be  polite  to  her — so's  to  keep  me  from 
breaking  the  commandments  all  to  pieces — just 
in  fun,  of  course.  And  so  she  did — mostly 
getting  rid  of  them  easy.  Soldiers  were  pass 
ing  all  the  time,  and  stopping  to  water  their 
horses  and  fill  their  haversacks  and  ask  ques 
tions,  and  not  always  Union  soldiers.  Only 
the  Unions  rode  in  the  daytime  and  the  others 
rode  mostly  at  night. 

But  one  day  a  squad  of  Union  cavalry  rode 
up  and  pounded  on  the  door  with  their  car 
bines — not  even  bothering  to  water  the  horses 
1 06 


DAVE'S    BUSINESS 

at  the  trough !  Evelyn  was  "in  town,"  as  she 
said,  where  she'd  been  going  often  of  late — 
sighing  and  dragging  herself  off.  Jon  was 
fishing.  I  answered  the  door. 

"Can't  you  wait  a  minute  ?"  yells  I,  from  the 
up-stairs.  "Don't  break  in  the  door.  There's 
not  much  of  it  left,  so  many  of  yous  come 
pounding  on  it.  I  ain't  no  Knight,  or  sym 
pathizer,  or  spy." 

"What's  your  name  ?"  asks  the  lieutenant  as 
soon  as  I  got  the  door  open. 

I'd  got  used  to  answering  that,  so  I  says,  as 
sharp  as  he: 

"Stephen  Vonner." 

The  lieutenant  turns  and  nods  to  his  men. 

"He's  telling  the  truth,  boys,  anyhow !" 

He  was  the  same  man  that  had  asked  our 
names  at  Crider's. 

"How  many  in  your  family?" 

"Three,"  says  I. 

"Men  or  women?" 

"Men." 

"No  children  or  ladies?"  he  asks  savage. 
107 


WAR 

"Betsy,  the  cook,"  says  I,  "but  she's  no  lady. 
Hired.  Anyhow,  ladies  don't  count." 

"Let  us  see  her,"  commands  the  officer. 

I  calls  her  and  Betsy  conies.  She's  so  fat  I 
have  to  step  aside  so  she  can  get  through  the 
door.  They  all  laughs  and  the  officer  says : 

"Betsy,  go  back  to  your  cooking." 

"And  next,  you'll  be  asking  for  pies!"  says 
Betsy,  wheeling  so  sudden  she  almost  knocked 
me  over. 

"Ah  !  Wait !"  calls  the  officer.  "You,  your 
self,  have  sealed  their  doom,  Betsy.  We 
haven't  time  to  stop  for  the  dinner  you  are 
cooking.  But — pies !" 

He  opens  his  haversack  and  shows  that  it  is 
empty.  And,  at  a  motion  from  him,  his  men 
do  the  same. 

"Betsy,"  he  goes  on,  "these  brave  fellows 
are  fighting  for  you — that  you  may  stay  here — 
and  bake  pies — for,  I  can  see  in  one  look,  that 
you  are  Union.  Now,  Betsy,  what  do  you 
think?"  He  points  to  the  empty  haversacks. 

Says  Betsy : 

1 08 


DAVE'S    BUSINESS 

"I  always  keep  something  on  hand  for 
them — "  she  points  to  the  haversacks  too! — 
"ever  since  the  war  began !" 

And  Betsy  filled  them  while  they  all  clapped 
their  hands,  like  at  theaters.  Doughnuts,  pies, 
tied  between  tin  plates  so's  they  wouldn't  get 
bro^e,  bread  wrapped  in  napkins,  sweet  cakes, 
coffee  in  little  tin  boxes,  flour  in  bags,  and  even 
jam  in  sardine  boxes!  That's  the  kind  of 
Union  old  Betsy  was ! 

The  soldiers  took  off  their  hats. 

"Betsy,"  says  the  lieutenant,  "it's  such  as 
you  that's  going  to  save  the  Union.  You're 
worth  a  regiment  of  fighting  men.  You  know, 
an  army  moves  upon  its  belly.  And  you  pro 
vide  the  belly.  Boys,  three  cheers  for  Betsy !" 

And  they  gave  'em,  while  Betsy  wipes  her 
eyes. 

"I  do  my  share,  Lieutenant,"  says  Betsy, 
"and  a  little  more,  because  some  others  on  the 
border  don't !" 

The  officer  got  back  to  business  right 
straight. 

109 


WAR 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asks,  in  that  sharp 
way. 

"The  border's  honeycombed  with  spies  and 
sympathizers,"  says  Betsy. 

"Who  ?  You  know  some  of  them !"  says  the 
officer. 

Betsy  says: 

"No,  I  don't  know  any  of  'em,  but  I  know 
their  doings.  Ain't  the  church  nailed  shut? 
Where'll  I  go  on  Sunday  now?" 

Betsy  goes  away,  and  the  officer  looks 
thoughtful  for  a  moment.  Then  he  says  to 
another  officer: 

"Betsy's  loyal — that's  certain." 

They  laugh  together. 

"Any  others  in  your  household?"  asks  the 
officer. 

"One  more,"  says  I,  "but  she's  only  a  girl 
— and,  anyhow,  she's  gone  away." 

"When  did  she  go?" 

Well,  I  didn't  want  'em  riding  after  Evelyn 
and  bothering  her — scaring  her  to  death  with 
questions — so,  I  answers  : 
no 


DAVE'S    BUSINESS 

"Oh,  some  time  ago.  I  don't  remember  just 
when." 

Which  was,  really,  exactly  true. 

"When  do  you  expect  her  back  ?" 

I  just  shakes  my  head,  like  I'd  say  I  don't 
know,  but  leaving  him  to  read  it  "Never,"  if  he 
liked.  You  just  couldn't  tell  xthem  fellows 
everything. 

"Was  she  your  daughter?" 

"Adi,  no!"  says  I,  real  hearty. 

"Any  relation?" 

"No  relation  at  all,"  says  I.    "Just  a  caller." 

"Oh !"  says  they.    "A  caller !"  and  laughs. 

Well — that's  nearly  so.     I  meant  visitor. 

"There  were  only  two  men  in  your  family  a 
while  ago,"  says  the  officer  to  me.  "Where — 
who  is  the  other  one?" 

"The  other  one?"I  laughs.  "Why,  Dave,  of 
course." 

"Who's  Dave?" 

"Dave?    My  boy." 

"Where  did  he  come  from?"  > 

"Virginia,"  says  I. 

in 


WAR 

"Oh!" 

And  a  whole  lot  of  "ohs"  echoed  from  the 
men. 

"What  was  his  business  there?" 

"School — he  was  going  to  college." 

"There  are  colleges  all  about  you  here — Bal 
timore,  Philadelphia,  Washington — better  ones 
than  any  in  Virginia.  Why  was  he  sent  there?" 

"Goshens,"  says  I,  "that's  the  first  time  I 
ever  been  asked  that  question  and  the  first  time 
I  ever  thought  about  it.  I  don't  know — oh — I 
expect  it's  because  all  the  Vonners  which  got 
educated,  went  to  William  and  Mary  College. 
Mebby  that's  it.  We  all  do  as  our  fathers 
done." 

"Shrewd!"  says  the  officer  to  the  man  be 
hind  him,  who  nods  yes. 

Well,  that's  the  first  — and,  be  goshens, — the 
last — time  any  one  ever  called  me  that! 

"Sure  he  has  come  just  now?  All  Union 
men  left  Virginia  long  ago.  Had  to." 

"Man!"  says  I,  "why  he's,  why  he's  just  a 

112 


DAVE'S    BUSINESS 

boy — our  baby.  He  don't  know  Union  from 
pot-cheese!  No,  nor  rebel,  either.  And  he's 
been  home  some  time.  You  don't  know  the 
news." 

That  sort  of  stopped  them  for  a  minute. 

"Let  us  see  him,"  says  the  officer  then. 

I  turns  and  yells  in  the  house,  funny : 

"Little  Davy,  come  out.  Some  gentlemen 
wants  to  see  you.  I  don't  want  'em  to,  but 
they  won't  go  unless  you  come  toddling  out !" 

And  I  laughs  to  think  how  they'd  be  fooled 
when  they  saw — my  baby. 

Well,  they  was — and  not  over  well  pleased 
to  be  fooled. 

Dave  comes  loafing  to  the  door  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  looking  bigger  than  ever.  He  was 
reading  something — a  newspaper  scrap — and 
didn't  bother  much  about  the  soldiers. 

"Baby,  eh?"  says  they,  and  laughs  most  as 
hard  as  I  had.  "Very  shrewd." 

Then  the  officer  says,  again  to  the  one  be 
hind  him: 


WAR 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?  Why  were  we 
to  think  him  a  child?  Too  much  or  too  little 
here?" 

He  touches  his  head. 

"Too  little,"  nods  the  officer. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.    But  the  boy  ?" 

"Maybe,"  nods  the  second  in  command. 

Then  the  officer  says  to  Dave: 

"What  were  you  doing  down  in  Virginia, 
my  little  boy?" 

"Eating  and  drinking  and  sleeping,  my  tall 
old  man,"  says  Dave.  "What  are  you  doing  up 
in  Maryland?" 

"Trying  to  find  out  what  you  are  doing 
there!" 

"Well,  go  on,"  says  Dave.  "I'm  sorry  for 
you." 

"Why?"  asks  the  officer. 

"You  don't  look  like  you  loved  work." 

"What's  your  business  ?"  asks  the  soldier. 

"Loafing,"  says  Dave. 

"And  how  long  has  that  been  your  busi 
ness?" 

114 


DAVE'S    BUSINESS 

"Ever  since,"  answers  Dave. 

"And  how  long  is  that?" 

"Ask  daddy,  here.  He  begun  it.  I  was  born 
that  way." 

"How  long  have  you  lived  here  ?" 

"Ask  daddy,"  says  Dave.  "He's  got  it  in  a 
book  somewheres,  I  expect." 

*lf  you  won't  tell  me  what  you  were  doing 
down  in  Virginia,  and  exactly  when  you  came 
North,  and  why,  perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what 
you  are  doing  here  now?" 

"Same  thing,"  says  Dave,  "as  in  Virginia." 

"Oh!"  says  the  second  in  command,  as  if 
he  had  found  something  out,  "the  same  thing! 
You  notice  that  he  says  he  is  doing  the  same 
thing  up  here!" 

"Are  you  doing  it  alone,"  asks  the  officer, 
"or  have  you  help?" 

'"Oh!  I  have  a  good  deal  of  help.  Most 
every  man  round  who  knows  what  I  am  doing 
wants  to  help." 

"You  don't  say  so!     Reports  made  it  bad 


WAR 

enough,  but   I  didn't  think  it  was  that  bad. 
Thank  you.    Go  on." 

"My  real  name,  and  it's  real  name,  and 
everything?"  says  Dave. 

"Never  mind  your  name  and  its  name.  We 
know  them  both.  Proceed  with  the  rest." 

Then  Dave  turns  to  the  officer  and  kicks  the 
boards  with  his  toes,  like  he's  guilty  of  some 
thing. 

"I  might  as  well  be  honest  with  you,"  he 
says,  "since  you're  bound  to  know." 

"That  sounds  better,"  nodded  the  officer  to 
his  second.  "Go  on.  You'll  not  regret  telling 
me." 

"I  have  been  doing  one  thing  up  here  that  I 
didn't  do  down  there,"  admits  Dave. 

"Aha !"  cries  the  lieutenant,  slapping  the  ser 
geant,  hearty.  "Now  we're  getting  to  it.  I 
told  you  so."  To  Dave  he  says,  nice  and  sweet : 
"Go  on.  I  can  not  promise  you  immunity,  but 
I  will  promise  the  lightest  punishment  that  the 
government  can  inflict." 
116 


DAVE'S    BUSINESS 

"Goshens!  Does  the  government  punish 
it?"  asks  Dave. 

"It  does,  sir.  The  punishment  is  death,  sir. 
But,  sir,  so  kind  and  merciful  is  our  president 
that  any  one  who  confesses  and  satisfies  the 
president  that  he  will  do  so  no  more — ahem ! — 
I  think  I  can  promise,  at  least,  that  he  will  not 
die  for  it." 

"Death?"  says  Dave.  "That's  a  hard  pun 
ishment  for — " 

"Not  at  all.  No,  sir,  death  is  the  only  fit 
punishment  for  it." 

"What's  the  matter  with  marriage?"  asks 
Dave,  solemn  as  an  owl. 

"Marriage?"  says  the  officer.  "No  one  has 
mentioned  marriage." 

"I  know  better,"  says  Dave.  "I  have,  a  lot 
of  times." 

"Well,  sir?  Come,  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it  and  I'll  do  what  I  can — " 

"What's  the  use — "  says  Dave,  in  a  pout — 
"what's  the  use — my  breast  may  as  well  stay 
dirty — if  it's  wrong — to  be  in — " 
117 


WAR 

"Come,  come !  We  are  losing  time.  Camp 
bell  will  take  it  down." 

Campbell  got  out  some  paper  and  a  pencil. 

"Now,  sir,  quickly,  and  briefly,  what  was 
the  other  thing  you  did  when  you  came  North 
from  Virginia?" 

"Fell  in  love,"  says  Dave,  still  solemn. 

"What?  What's  that?  Campbell,  never 
mind,  just  yet.  Now,  then,  sir,  repeat  that  and 
I'll  arrest  you!"  yells  the  officer. 

"Then  I  won't  repeat  it,"  says  Dave. 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Campbell  ? — he  refuses  to 
repeat  his  confession.  Put  him  under — " 

Campbell  salutes  and  says : 

"The  only  thing  he  has  confessed,  sir,  as  far 
as  I  can  see,  is  that  he  has  fallen  in  love." 

"Is  that  so,  sir?"  thunders  the  lieutenant. 
"That  you  have  confessed  nothing  but  falling 
in  love?" 

"That's  all,"  sighs  Dave,  like  he  was  tired, 
and  winking  hard  at  me., 

"Well,  sir.  I've  a  great  mind  to  arrest  you 
for  that,  sir  I" 

118 


DAVE'S    BUSINESS 

"I'm  sorry,"  says  Dave.  "I  didn't  know  that 
I  could  be  arrested  for  it." 

By  this  time  all  the  soldiers  was  laughing  at 
the  fool-officer.  And  mad !  Phew ! 

For  a  minute  I  didn't  know  whether  he  was 
going  to  run  Dave  through  the  bosom  with  his 
swqrd,  or  not.  Then  he  slaps  the  other  two  on 
the  shoulders,  put  his  sword  up,  and  they  all 
laughs  like  blazes. 

"Constantly  looking  for  treason  makes  one 
silly  about  it,  I  guess,"  he  says  to  the  others. 
"I  got  what  I  deserve."  To  Dave  he  says :  "1 
won't  arrest  you — just  yet.  I'm  rather  in 
clined  to  shake  your  hand.  I  like  a  man  who 
gets  the  better  of  me — and  is  in  love !" 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  Dave  takes  it. 
But,  as  he  does  so,  he  exposes  the  newspaper 
scrap  that  he  has  been  reading. 

"What  have  you  been  reading?"  asks  the 
officer.  "I  may  not  be  so  far  off,  after  all." 

"Nothing,"  says  Dave,  indifferent. 

But  the  officer  'takes  the  paper  out  of  his 
hand. 

119 


WAR 

"Jefferson  Davis's  speech  last  week  at  Chat 
tanooga!"  he  says.  "'Why  the  Confederacy 
can  not  fail.' ' 

"Excuse  me.  I  was  reading  the  other  side," 
says  Dave.  "The  little  rebel  girl  I'm  in  love 
with  sent  it  to  me.  See?  The  other  side  is 
poetry.  Give  it  back  to  me." 

But  the  officer  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Is  this  girl  Southern?"  asks  the  officer. 

"Lord!"  says  Dave.  "The  Southernest  of 
the  Southern!  She's  the  rebelest  rebel  yet!  If 
all  the  rebel  soldiers  would  fight  as  hard  as  she 
does,  the  war  wouldn't  last  a  month !" 

"The  one  we  spoke  of  a  while  ago?"  laughs 
the  officer. 

"The  same  one,"  answers  Dave. 

"You  are  going  to  marry  her?"  asks  the 
officer. 

"She'll  never  get  away  from  me !"  says 
Dave.  "If  I  die  for  it — like  you  said." 

"That's  fine,"  says  the  officer.  "But  I  sup 
pose  it  will  be  some  time  yet,  before  you  go 
to  Virginia  to  marry  her,  Mr.— Mr.  Mallory?" 
120 


DAVE'S    BUSINESS 

He  sprung  it  on  Dave  just  like  on  me.  But 
Dave  never  winked. 

"Vonner,"  says  Dave,  easy  as  you  like, 
"Dutch,  not  Irish." 

"Yes?  Excuse  me,"  says  the  officer.  "But, 
if  there  were  such  a  person  hereabouts  you 
would  know  it,  eh?" 

"Daddy  would,"  says  Dave.  "He  knows 
everything,  and  he'd  be  sure  to  tell  me.  Pie 
can't  keep  no  secret,  can  you,  daddy  ?"  and  he 
winks  at  me,  right  before  them  all. 

"So  I  supposed,  Mr.  Mallory." 

Then  Dave  got  mad 

"Vonner,  I  told  you.  What  are  you  about, 
anyhow  ?  Suppose  you  tell  us  where  you  came 
from  and  what  you  are  and  where  you  are 
going?  Don't  think  because  you're  in  brass 
buttons  and  blue  clothes  that  you  own  the  uni 
verse.  We  see  enough  uniforms  about  here 
not  to  be  scared  of  'em." 

"And  some  gray  ones,  I  have  no  doubt, 
Mr.—" 

"Vonner,"  says  Dave,  "for  fear  you'll  for- 
121 


WAR 

get  it  again.  Yes,  lots  of  gray  ones.  And,  any 
how,  they  don't  bother  us  as  much  as  the  blue 
ones.  They're  a  heap-sight  more  polite." 

"I  believe  you,  Mr. — " 

"Vonner." 

"Yes,  that's  quite  natural.  Thank  you  for 
a  pleasant  morning.  I  shall  hope  to  meet  you 
again." 

"Not  if  I  see  you  first,"  laughs  Dave. 

"No,"  nods  the  officer,  "not  if  you  see  me 
first.  I'll  take  care  of  that !  And  I'll  keep  an 
eye  on  this  love-affair,  too.  It  interests  me. 
I  like  love-affairs.  We  shall  be  sure  to  meet 
again,  Mr.  Mallory,"  and  he  laughs  and  winks, 
as  he  rides  off.  "For  you're  sure  to  stay  here 
— now  that  we  know  its  name  and  yours." 

"There's  that  Mallory  again,"  says  I,  when 
they  were  gone. 

"Where?"  says  Dave.  "If  you'll  show  him 
to  me  I'll  spoil  his  face.  I  suppose  he  looks  like 
me." 

"Is  that  the  reason  you  want  to  spoil  his 
face?" 

122 


DAVE'S    BUSINESS 

"Yes.  I  won't  have  a  twin  round  here 
where  Evelyn  is.  She  might  take  him  for  me." 

We  laughs  and  slaps  each  other — just  in  fun, 
as  any  one  can  see. 


XIII 

WERE  THERE  UNIONS   OR   CONFEDERATES  IN 
HARG'S  WOODS? 

I  HAPPENS  to  be  at  the  dormer  window  a 
couple  of  minutes  later,  and  sees  the  soldiers 
at  the  turn  in  the  Red  Rock  Road.  Only  about 
half  of  the  squad  was  there.  I  wondered  what 
had  become  of  the  rest — until  three  days  later, 
when  I  meets  them  camped  in  Harg's  woods, 
just  about  a  half-mile  away. 

About  the  same  time  I  notices  that  there's 
always  some  one,  dressed  in  any  kind  of  old 
clothes,  where  he  can  see  the  back  door,  and 
another  where  he  can  see  the  front  door. 

Dave  notices  these  loafers,  too. 

"They're  just  stealing  green  corn  and  pota 
toes,"  says  he.  "Let  them  alone.  It  won't  hurt 
us  much  and  will  give  them  colic." 

"But,  where  do  they  come  from?"  I  asks. 
124 


UNION    OR    CONFEDERATE? 

"There's  a  camp  of  Johnnies  in  Harg's 
woods." 

"Davy,"  says  I,  "you  need  the  eye-doctor." 

"Why?"  says  Dave. 

"They're  Unions." 

"Rebels." 

^Unions." 

And  so  we  went  on  denying,  till  Dave 
dragged  me  around  to  see. 

Well,  it  looked  like  he  was  right. 

"It's  funny,"  says  I,  "but  you  fellows  look 
exactly  like  the  Unions  that  was  down  at  my 
house,  there,  the  other  day.  I  remember  your 
faces." 

"All  soldiers  look  alike,"  laughs  one. 

"Not  on  your  life,"  says  I.  "I  could  swear 
that  you — .  What  you  doing  here,  anyhow? 
It's  dangerous.  Unions  are  about  most  all 
the  time." 

"Yes,  it's  dangerous,"  nods  the  soldier,  "but 
we're  looking  out."  And  he  makes  monkey 
shines  with  his  hands  and  fingers  to  Dave  and 
me.  "And  you're  assisting  us  to  look  out,  eh?" 


WAR 

"What's  it  all  about?"  asks  Dave. 

"We  are  helping  some  bulky  material  South 
by  the  Underground,"  says  he.  "And  all  the 
assistance  we  can  get  just  now  is  needed." 

He  makes  more  monkey-business  with  his 
hands  and  feet.  Up,  down — right,  left — 
circles,  all  around. 

"You  don't  need  to  be  so  exceedingly  care 
ful,  Mr.  Vonner— " 

He  looked  straight  at  me  with  some  more 
signs. 

"—and  Mr.  Mallory— " 

Straight  at  Dave  with  the  same  hocus-pocus. 

" — you're  among  friends." 

"Lunatics,"  says  Dave.  "The  asylum  is  at 
Mount  Hope,  about  twenty  miles  away.  Did 
you  get  out  or  are  you  on  your  way  in?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  under 
stand?" 

"The  deaf  and  dumb  language  is  foreign  to 
us,"  says  Dave. 

"Is  this  the  same?"  asks  one,  turning  the 
lapel  of  his  coat  and  showing  a  badge  made  by 
126 


UNION    OR    CONFEDERATE? 

cutting  the  Indian  head  out  of  one  of  the  big, 
old,  copper  cents. 

"The  same,"  says  Dave. 

"Let  me  see  that,"  says  I. 

He  handed  it  over  to  me. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "when  I  was  more  a  fool 
tha<i  I  am  now,  I  was  a  little  bit  of  a  Copper 
head.  This  is  the  thing  they  used  to  wear  to 
show  each  other  who  they  was." 

"And  you  couldn't  do  so  little  for  the  cause 
as  to  help  run  a  few  mules  across  the  border 
to-night,  and  lead  a  few  recruits  south  of  the 
Potomac,  you  and  our  other  friends  here?" 

"I  won't  think  of  it,"  says  Dave,  "unless  it's 
a  thousand — mules.  A  few  are  not  enough!" 

He  drags  me  off. 

And  that  night  at  the  table,  Dave  tells  all 
about  the  fun  he'd  had  that  day,  being  taken 
for  Mallory,  and  tells  Evelyn  he's  going  to  take 
her  around  the  next  day,  to  have  some  fun,  too, 
and  see  whether  they'll  take  her  for  Mallory. 

Evelyn  got  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  nearly 
fell  off  her  chair. 

127 


WAR 

"Oh,  well,"  says  Dave,  "if  you  feel  that  way 
we  won't." 

"I  don't  want  to  go — I  don't  want  to  go- 
says  Evelyn.     Starting  to  her  room. 

She  was  sick  in  bed  the  next  day. 


XIV 
BETSY'S  PIES  AGAIN 

ANYHOW,  another  squad  of  Unions  come 
JL  jLaround. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "you're  a  funny  lot.  Now 
you're  all  dressed  up  in  Union  uniforms.  What 
are  you,  anyhow?  Unions  or  Johnnies?" 

"Do  you  think  you  have  seen  us  before?" 
laughs  the  lieutenant  in  command. 

"I  do,"  says  I. 

"We  are  here  for  the  last  time,  to  find  out 
from  the  people,  like  yourself,  whom  we  know 
to  be  loyal,  what  is  going  on  at  the  Under- 
gFound  station,  and  in  the  Copperhead  lodge  of 
the  Knights  of  the  Golden  Circle.  Are  you 
willing  to  help  your  country?" 

"Well,  how  can  I  help  you  when  I  don't 
know  anything?"  say  I.  "I'm  getting  tired  of 
this." 

129 


.WAR 

"So  are  we.  And  we  are  going  to  close  the 
incident.  Call  out  your  whole  family." 

"There's  no  one  here  but  me,"  I  says. 

They  seemed  mad  about  that. 

"Mr.  Vonner,"  says  the  officer,  with  his  fin 
ger  on  me  like  a  loaded  gun,  "there  have  been 
traitorous  doings  in  this  vicinity  for  a  long 
time !  Information  goes  south  from  here  regu 
larly  of  all  our  movements !  Such  bulky  things 
as  horses,  provisions  and  recruits  slip  through 
the  lines  from  here!  Somewhere  near  the 
Knights  of  the  Golden  Circle  meet!  Now, 
then,  do  you  mean  to  persist  in  saying  that  you 
live  in  this  hotbed  of  treason  and  know  noth 
ing  of  any  of  these  things?" 

"Not  a  thing,"  laughs  I.  "You're  fooled, 
Lieutenant.  It  ain't  so." 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  the  United 
States  government  is  not  so  easily  fooled.  And 
its  eyes  are  right  on  this  place,  just  now — and 
on  you!  Take  care.  You  may  be  as  dull  as 
you  seem.  You  may  not.  Though  all  about 
130 


BETSY'S    PIES    AGAIN 

here  seem  to  agree  that  you  are  an  honest 
Union  man." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  I  says,  "straight  through  from 
here  to  here — " 

I  touched  my  bosom  and  my  back. 

" — and  if  anybody  plays  rebel  monkey  shines 
around  here  you'll  know  it  as  soon  as  I  do." 

"I  like  to  hear  that,"  says  the  officer. 

He  consults  with  his  men,  and  then  he  turns 
to  me  and  says — suddenly. 

"Mr.  Vonner,  the  Underground  station  is 
said  to  be  not  three  miles  to  the  south  of  this 
spot!" 

"No!"  says  I,  soprized  like  thunder. 

"It  is  at  Crider's  tavern,  or  in  that  vicinity," 
said  the  officer. 

"Well,  by  the  Lord,"  says  I,  hot  against 
Crider,  "I  owe  him  a  few  now.  If  he  cuts  up 
any  tricks  hereafter  he'll  get  a  load  of  buck 
shot  from  the  old  flint-lock !" 

"This  will  be  better,"  says  the  officer,  tak 
ing  a  carbine  from  one  of  his  men  and  handing 


WAR 

it  to  me.  VGive  him  your  ammunition,  Gross," 
he  says  to  the  man,  and  he  emptied  a  double 
handful  of  brass  cartridges  into  my  hands. 

"Now,"  said  the  officer,  "I  believe  in  you, 
though  you  and  your  sons  are  under  suspicion. 
Prove  your  loyalty  to  the  Union  by  keeping  up 
a  patrol  of  this  vicinity.  There's  a  spy  near 
you.  Mallory.  He  must  be  caught.  Yon  can 
catch  him.  He  won't  be  on  guard  for  you.  If 
you  meet  any  strangers — or  even  not  strangers 
— who  can  not  give  an  account  of  themselves, 
take  them  into  custody.  I  am  authorized  to 
deputize  you  a  provost  marshal  of  the  United 
States.  If  any  one  resists  or  will  not  stand, 
fire  upon  him." 

"By  the  Lord,  I  will !"  says  I,  hot. 

"You  so  swear?"  says  the  officer.  "Hold  up 
your  right  hand." 

I  did  it. 

"But  there  is  a  suspicious  circumstance  af 
fecting  you  and  your  sons.  Why  aren't  some 
of  you  in  the  Unio'n  army  if  you  are  loyal?" 

"Well,"  I  says,  kind  of  humble,  "that's  so, 
132 


BETSY'S    PIES    AGAIN 

Mr.  Officer.  Some  of  us  ought  to  go.  We 
talk  about  it  often.  But  Dave's  young  and 
reckless,  and  Jon's  handsome.  I  hate  to  think 
about  'em  being  shot  in  the  legs  or  cut  in  the 
face  with  sabers.  Or  with  just  one  leg  or  arm. 
I  see  so  many  cripples  coming  home.  I  wish  we 
could  have  war  without  shooting  or  cutting. 
When  we  get  through  all  the  nice  young  men 
will  be  on  crutches.  What  then  ?  Some  one  has 
to  be  licked.  And  the  other  side'll  need  the 
young  men  to  build  up  with  again.  Why,  we 
won't  have  anything  when  it's  done  and  will 
have  to  begin  right  on  the  ground — after  every 
thing's  shot  and  burned  up.  No  one  but  me  ain't 
looking  ahead,  I  expect.  Look  at  us.  It  was 
hard  enough  getting  a  living  out  of  the  old 
farm  before.  What  do  you  think  it's  going  to  be 
afterward?  And,  then,  Mr.  Officer,  though  I 
ain't  as  pretty  as  my  sons,  they  wouldn't  let 
me  go  alone — though  I'm  willing  if  that'll  keep 
them  all  in  one  piece.  You  see — I  suppose  you 
suspect  it,  anyhow — we  ain't  no  fighters,  and 
we  hate  to  hurt  and  kill  things — and  to  be 
133 


WAR 

apart  If  one's  goes  we'll  all  have  to  go.  And, 
maybe,  we  couldn't  all  get  in  the  same  com 
pany.  So,  who'd  take  care  of  my  boys  if  they 
got  sick?  And  how'd  they  take  care  of  me?  I 
expect,  if  it  gets  much  worse — some'll  have 
to—" 

"It  must  get  worse  before  it  can  get  better," 
said  the  officer.  "And  when  that  time  comes 
you  must  take  your  place  in  the  ranks,  or  prove 
your  loyalty  otherwise.  But,  for  the  present 
you  are,  probably,  more  useful  here.  We  ex 
pect  the  arrest  of  Mallory  now,  no  matter  who 
he  may  be.  Be  sure  to  tell  no  one  of  your 
office." 

"Not  even  Dave  and  Jon?" 

"No  one,"  says  the  officer.  "Especially 
Dave  and  Jon.  And  by  the  way,  has  Betsy  any 
pies  on  hand?" 

He  forgets  and  laughs  and  opens  his  haver 
sack. 

"Oh,  so !"  says  I.    "You  were  never  here  be 
fore!    I  just  wonder  who  told  you  about  the 
pies — and  Betsy !    Ha  ha !" 
134 


BETSY'S    PIES    AGAIN 

But  I  didn't  exactly  get  him.  One  of  his 
men  nudged  him  and  whispers. 

"My  dear  man,"  he  laughs,  "Betsy  and  her 
pies  are  known  all  through  the  Union  army!" 

"I  thought  I  had  you,"  says  I,  "but  you  got 
me — and  you  shall  have  the  pies  for  being 
smarter  than  me  and  slinging  such  a  fine  com 
pliment  at  Betsy." 

Well,  he  got  the  pies — and  dropped  some  pa 
pers  out  of  his  bag  as  he  opened  it  for  Betsy 
to  put  them  in.  I  picks  'em  up  and  yells  after 
him,  but  he  is  out  of  sight,  laughing,  and  in 
dust  and  noise,  before  I  can  think. 

I  put  the  papers  in  my  pocket,  thinking  that 
they  would  soon  be  back  again  and  I'd  give  'em 
to  him. 


xy 

WHAT   WAS  THE  TAPESTRY  OF  PENELOPE? 

I  HIDES  my  carbine,  and  has  some  heavy 
thoughts  before  they  all  come  home.  I 
had  gone  too  far.  I  was  scared  of  myself. 
But  it  was  always  so  when  they  got  me  talking 
Union  and  rebel.  I  had  sworn  to  arrest  a  spy ! 
And  if  he  resisted,  to  fire  on  him !  It  made  me 
shiver.  I  wished  I  hadn't  done  it.  But,  I  be 
lieve  that  if  I  hadn't,  they'd  have  taken  me 
along.  And  think  of  the  children  coming 
home  and  finding  me  gone !  And  after  being 
taken  away — I'd  never  get  a  chance  to  let  them 
know  about  it.  I  had  heard  that  when  you  got 
taken  to  Fort  Warren  or  Fortress  Monroe,  you 
were  buried.  Besides,  I  had  promised  that  I 
wouldn't  tell  any  one.  Now,  look  at  that!  I'd 
never  had  a  secret  from  the  boys ! 

Evelyn  came  first.     And  she  had  a  big  bun- 
136 


THE    TAPESTRY    OF    PENELOPE 

die  which  she  hadn't  taken  away  when  she  went 
to  town. 

"What  is  it?"  asks  I. 

"Daddy,"  she  laughs,  kind  of  excited  and 
hysterical,  "if  you  think  back,  you'll  remember 
that  I  hadn't  many  clothes  when  I  came,  and  I 
haven't  got  many  since.  Don't  you  think  a 
girl's  clothes — especially  certain  flimsy  ones — 
wear  out?" 

"Of  course,"  says  I,  "of  course.  It's  a 
shame !  I  never  thought  of  clothes  for  you. 
I'm  so  unused  to  women." 

"Don't  bother,  daddy,"  she  says,  as  affec 
tionate,  "I  got  some  right  here — when  they're 
once  made !" 

She  cried  about  it.  I  couldn't  understand 
that !  A  girl  crying  about  new  clothes ! 

"You  got  to  make  'em  all?  I'll  get  Sis 
Lowry  to  do  it  for  you.  She  needs  the  money, 
anyhow." 

"No !  I  must  make  them  myself !"  says  Eve 
lyn. 

Well,  I  thought  it  was  funny,  that  the  tired 
137 


WAR 

sad  look  came  into  her  eyes  when  she  said  that, 
instead  of  the  crazy- with- joy  look  a  girl  would 
have  about  making  her  own  pretty  clothes.  It 
came  often  now ! 

"I  suppose  no  one  can  see  them,  "  I  laughs, 
"when  they're  done?" 

"Daddy !"  she  says.  "No  you  will  never  see 
them!" 

And  again  the  sick  look  came  in  her  eyes. 

"And,  I  shall  be  secret — with  my  door 
locked,  while  I'm  working  on  'em.  You  won't 
mind,  will  you,  for  a  little  while?" 

"No,"  I  says,  "but  the  boys?" 

"Ah,  the  boys!"  she  says,  suddenly  turning 
away  and  choking.  "I'm  tired — awful  tired. 
I'll  go  straight  to  my  room." 

I  went  with  her  as  far  as  the  stair-steps. 
There  she  stopped,  a  couple  of  steps  up,  and 
says,  so  pitiful  that  I  felt  like  comforting  her: 

"Daddy,  did  your  passions  ever  lead  you 
where  you  oughtn't  to  go  ?  Where  it's  death  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  says  I. 

"Suppose  that  when  you  were  very  angiy — 
138 


THE  TAPESTRY  OF  PENELOPE 

say  at  me — you  unconsciously  betrayed  me  to 
enemies — or  fixed  it  so  that  some  brute  would 
come  and  beat  me,  put  me  in  prison,  kill  me, 
and  then,  when  you  repented  and  loved  me 
again,  and  tried  to  get  the  brute  to  stop  coming 
to  beat  and  kill  me,  you  couldn't!  You  had 
gone  too  far — told  too  much — brought  the  dan 
ger  too  near !" 

"Again!"  says  I.  "You  are  talking  in  para 
bles.  I  never  read  'em,  because  I  do  not  under 
stand  'em.  The  Psalmist  might  as  well  have 
made  a  translation  for  fellers  like  me — if  he 
wanted  us  to  know  what  he  was  talking  about. 
What's  the  English  of  it,  Evelyn?" 

" — And  you  had  to  keep  on  doing  things  to 
please  the  brute — even  letting  him  take  you  to 
keep  him  from  taking  me !" 

"Me?"  says  I.  "I'd  shoot  the  brute  and  be 
j 

done  with  it!  I  wouldn't  stand  no  such  hell! 
Not  for  a  minute !" 

"But  if  he  were  so  big  and  impervious  that 
you  couldn't  injure  him — just  shoot  and  shoot 
and  shoot  and  be  laughed  at — while  he,  with 
139 


•WAR 

one  twist  of  his  thumb  and  finger,  could  take 
the  head  off  of  me  you  love — 

She  sighs  and  is  silent  for  a  while. 
— or  off  of  you — or  Jon — 

Another  and  worse  sigh,  and  more  silence. 

" — or  Dave — whom  I  love!" 

"Come  back,"  says  I,  "and  fetch  the  diction 
ary  with  you !" 

But  she  just  goes  on — holding  hard  to  the 
side  of  the  stair,  drooping  her  nice  head,  as  if  it 
was  about  all  she  could  bear. 

"Wi —  wouldn't  you  keep  on  trying  to  please 
the  brute — even  though  you  suffered — oh,  suf 
fered  hell  itself — died — so  as  to  keep  him  from 
me  ?  I  mean  from  you-all  ?" 

"I  don't  understand,  dear,"  says  I,  as  kind 
as  possible — for  I  never  saw  her  so  worked  up. 
"But  if  it's  trouble,  let  your  old  daddy — yes, 
and  Jon  and  Dave,  too,  help  you !" 

"And  suppose,"  she  goes  on,  "that  was  just 

the  hell  of  it,  as  you  said — that  you  couldn't — • 

daren't — call  on  them  to  help  you — the,   the 

only  ones  who  would!     Suppose  that  merely 

140 


THE  TAPESTRY  OF  PENELOPE 

calling  on  them  would  ruin  them.  Suppose 
that  you  had  to  do  it  all  alone — and  that  you 
were  only  a  girl,  after  all,  like  me !" 

"Evelyn,"  says  I  again,  "I  don't  understand. 
You  got  to  speak  plain.  If  you  are  in  trouble 
— or  any  of  your  friends — you  got  two  brave 
bo^s  to  right  for  you — and  another  old  man 
that'll  do  his  best  to  hurt  any  one  who  hurts 
you !" 

"Ah,  daddy,  daddy,  daddy,  how  well  I  know 
that !  And  how  bitter  that  makes  it !" 

"I  expect  it's  about  your  being  a  rebel,  ain't 
it?"  asks  I. 

She  nods. 

"Well,  how  often  must  I  say  not  to  bother 
about  that — that  we  don't  care  how  rebel  you 
are  ?  You  shan't  be  hurt  for  it !  We'll  see  to 
that!" 

She  cries  and  leans  her  nice  head  down  on 
me. 

"Oh,  if  you  only  could — if  you  only  could, 
daddy,  daddy,  darling!  Ah,  you  are  the  only 
ones  who  can't.  Daddy,  if  they  kill  me — will 
141 


WAR 

you  see  that  I  am  decently  interred  and  not 
thrown  on  the  dunghill  as  I  deserve  to  be?  I 
love  you-all  now  more  than — that  other  thing 
— I  used  to  love  when  the  devil  was  awake. 
Daddy,  whatever  happens,  don't  you,  for  God's 
sake,  desert  me!  Stay  with  me  and  give  me 
another  chance !" 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  exactly  what's  up," 
Says  I,  "though  I  expect  an  old  fool  like  me 
wouldn't  understand  a  nice  young  girl's 
thoughts." 

"Daddy,"  she  asks,  "did  you  ever  hear  the 
story  of  Penelope?" 

"I  never  was  acquainted  with  her.  I  suppose 
she  lives  in  Hartford  County,  not?"  answers  I. 

"She  lived  in  Greece— 

"The  country  in  the  geography,"  I  says,  "not 
the  Shnitzlers'  place?" 

"Yes.  She  was  the  wife  of  a  great  soldier 
named  Ulysses.  And  while  he  was  off  in  the 
wars  many  other  chiefs  came  and  wanted  her, 
and  they  all  brought  their  weapons,  and  all 
thought  him  dead.  For  men  didn't  woo  women 
142 


THE  TAPESTRY  OF  PENELOPE 

in  those  days;  they  took  them.  But,  scared 
though  she  was,  she  kept  them  all  at  bay,  play 
ing  one  against  the  other  by  promising  to 
choose  one  of  them  as  soon  as  a  tapestry  she 
was  weaving  for  her  husband's  shroud  was  fin 
ished.  But,  at  night,  she  ripped  out  what  she 
haji  woven  by  day,  so  that  it  took  a  long  time 
— and  then  Ulysses,  who  had  not  been  killed, 
returned,  as  she  had  hoped  and  prayed  he 
would,  and  all  ended  happily  for  her." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "that's  a  nice  story.  But 
what's  the  answer?" 

"I  am  Penelope,  daddy,  dear,"  she  says, 
"and  this  is  the  tapestry." 

She  holds  up  the  bundle  she'd  brought  home. 

"I've  got  a  grudging  permission  to  weave 
my  own  shroud,  because  there's  none  ready 
made  about  here,  for — ' 

She  sighs  hard  and  long. 

"And  I  am  going  to  make  it  last  long,  long, 
long,  hoping  and  praying  that  before  it  is  done 
my  Ulysses  may  return  and  save  me,  and  make 
a  happy  ending." 

143 


WAR 

Then  she  suddenly  takes  another  tack. 

"Daddy,  sometimes  I  hear  that  the  war 
can't  last  long  any  more.  What  do  you  think  ?" 

"Well,"  I  says,  not  very  cheerful,  "it's  my 
opinion,  that  the  war'll  last  as  long  as  the 
South  has  anything  to  fight  with.  Gosh! 
Sometimes  I  almost  wish  'em  success — they  are 
such  grand  fellows.  No  matter  how  many  we 
kill  there's  always  others  a-coming.  No  matter 
how  little  they  got  to  eat  and  wear,  nor  how 
little  ammunition  they  got,  they  fight!  Yes — 
as  long  as  they  can  fight  this  war'll  keep  on." 

She  gives  a  long  moan. 

"What,"  I  says,  "you  don't  mean  it?" 

"Oh,  daddy,"  she  says,  "if  that  is  the  only 
way  to  stop  it,  let  us  pray,  as  I  do,  that  my 
people  may  soon — oh,  very  soon — have  noth 
ing  left  to  fight  with — men  or  guns  or  food !" 

Think  of  that,  will  you,  from  such  a  rebel 
as  Evelyn! 

"Evelyn,"  says  I,  "that  is  serious  from  a 
rebel  like  you.     Are  you  sick?     Why  is  it? 
Stand  fast  by  your  colors!" 
144 


THE  TAPESTRY  OF  PENELOPE 

"I  can't,"  she  says.  "It's  not  in  here  any 
more!"  She  pounds  her  breast.  "Something 
else  has  taken  its  place.  Yes,  I  am  a  brute. 
But,  I  suppose,  if  I  could,  I'd  sacrifice  the 
whole  South — for — that  one  other  thing.  But," 
she  laughs  a  little,  "maybe  I  can  keep  my  tap 
estry  from  being  finished  till  the  war's  over. 
That's  my  only  hope." 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "then  that's  the  trouble! 
You're  bothering  because  we've  changed  your 
mind  for  you!  You  can't  be  rebel  any  more 
and  you  think  you  oughtn't  be  Union!  Say, 
Evelyn,  that  makes  me  laugh,  it  does,  really. 
Of  course,  we're  glad  you're  Union.  But,  if 
you  ain't  sure  about  it,  why,  keep  on  being 
rebel.  We'll  all  love  you  just  as  hard.  What's 
the  odds — for  a  woman?  And,  if  you  can't  do 
.either  the  one  or  the  other,  which,  I  expect,  is 
your  trouble,  just  forget  it  and  be  happy.  It's 
hereditary:  that's  why  I'm  Union.  And  it'll 
work  itself  out  all  right.  Do  you  hear?  Just 
be  happy.  That's  what'll  please  us  most.'* 

Goshens !  When  I  looks  up  the  turn  of  the 
145 


WAR 

stair,  where  she  had  been,  she's  not  there.  I 
don't  think  she  heard  a  word  of  that  nice  stuff 
of  mine !  I  didn't  like  that. 

Jon  and  Dave  came  a  little  later,  as  happy 
as  a  pair  of  June  bugs,  Dave,  really  on  Jon's 
back,  with  a  string  of  fish  as  long  as  your  arm. 
What  do  you  think  of  that!  Dave  on  Jon's 
back!  I  wonder  how  far  Jon'd  carried  him? 
Why,  Dave  had  caught  up  and  was  as  big  as 
Jon  now! 

Of  course,  the  first  thing  they  asked  for  was 
Evelyn,  and  I  told  them  about  her  being  in 
town  and  the  new  clothes.  But  not  about  the 
soldiers  nor  Penelope. 

"Now,  I  expect,"  whines  Dave,  "we'll  see 
her  about  once  a  week — all  on  account  of 
clothes." 

"Davy,"  says  I,  "a  woman  and  clothes  means 
the  same  thing." 

But  Dave,  he  sings  up  to  her  window : 

"  'Oh,  tell  me  where  my  Eva's  gone !' ' 

And  Evelyn  throws  open  the  window  and 
146 


THE  TAPESTRY  OF  PENELOPE 

flings  a  kiss  and  laughs,  happy  as  blazes.  All 
changed  the  minute  Dave  comes !  She  has 
sewing  things  in  her  mouth  and  hands,  and, 
as  she  waves,  something  drops  out  of  her 
hand  into  the  tall  grass.  We  all  tries  to  find  it 
but  it  is  no  good,  and  she  laughs,  kind  of  ex 
cited,  and  says: 

"Only  an  empty  spool,  boys.    Don't  bother," 
and  we  didn't — no  more. 


XVI 
EVELYN'S  SPOOL 

I  DIDN'T  want  to  take  the  responsibility  of 
watching  for  that  spy,  and,  maybe,  shoot 
ing  him,  myself,  so  I  thought  I  had  better  work 
Jon  into  it  with  me,  somehow,  no  matter  if  T 
had  promised  not  to  tell  him.  They  had  no 
business  to  ask  such  a  thing. 

"Jon,"  I  says,  "things  are  getting  so  bad 
around  here  that  we  got  to  arm  and  look  out 
for  the  place.  When  they  get  to  cutting  down 
trees  and  breaking  windows  so  they  can  look 
in  it's  about  time." 

"Yes,"  nods  old  Jon,  "I've  been  thinking 
about  that  myself." 

"Then  Evelyn  turning  Union — " 

"What !"  says  he,  like  an  explosion,  "what's 
that?" 

"Evelyn's  turned  Union." 
148 


EVELYN'S    SPOOL 

"Who  told  you?" 

"She." 

"Yes,"  says  Jon,  "that  makes  her  doubly 
precious." 

Well,  I  didn't  mean  that. 

"Why?"  asks  I.  "No  one  cares  whether 
sjie's  Union  or  rebel.  No  one  but  us  knows 
what  she  is.  I  don't  suppose  that  makes  her 
any  more  precious,  does  it,  Jonthy  ?" 

"Yes,  it  does,  daddy,"  says  Jon.  "She's 
nearer  to  us  all !  What  did  you  mean,  daddy  ?" 

"Well,"  I  says,  "I  kind  of  thought  that  hav 
ing  a  rebel  in  the  house  would  keep  us  on  good 
terms  with  the  Confederates,  and  keeping  loyal 
ourselves  would  keep  us  straight  with  the 
Unions.  There  wasn't  much  sense  in  it,  be 
cause  no  one  knows  of  her  sentiments.  Just 
a  kind  of  a  brauch.  But  I  felt  that  way." 

"I  suppose  it  is  the  very  worst  way  to  feel," 
laughs  Jon.  "You  know  what  always  happens 
to  people  who  carry  water  on  both  shoulders! 
I  don't  think  that  that  has  had  the  least  thing 
to  do  with  keeping  the  secessionists  from  both- 
149 


WAR 

ering  us.    For,  as  you  say,  none  of  them  know 
her  politics." 

"Anyhow,"  I  goes  on,  "she'd  better  stop  her 
long  walks  alone — and  going  to  town  so  of 
ten." 

"Daddy,"  answers  Jon,  "who  do  you  think 
would  harm  a  woman — a  girl,  in  fact !" 

"Well,"  I  adds,  "I  don't  want  to  scare  you. 
But  what  happened  to  Annie  Shuster — " 

"That's  so,"  nods  Jon,  "that's  so,  daddy!" 

Annie  was  on  an  errand  to  Crider's  and 
some  Union  soldiers  took  her  for  a  suspect 
they  had  been  watching — trying  to  escape  in 
woman's  clothes.  I  hate  to  say  what  they  done 
to  her.  But  they  treated  her  like  she  was  a 
man.  Anyhow,  she  looked  a  good  deal  like  a 
man.  That  made  Jon  change  his  mind. 

"Yes,"  he  says.  "There's  hardly  any  possi 
bility  of  Evelyn  being  taken  for  a  man,  she's 
too  feminine.  But,  yes,  we'd  better  look  out  a 
little  more.  There's  no  use  in  taking  chances. 
We'll  watch — you  and  me — night  and  night. 
I'll  fix  up  the  old  flint-lock.  It  will  hold  a 
pint  of  buckshot." 

150 


EVELYN'S    SPOOL 

I  was  mighty  glad  for  Jon  to  tumble  in  like 
that,  thinking  it  all  his  own  plan. 

"Yes,"  I  says.  "I'll  go  to  town  and  get  a 
carbine." 

I  thought,  in  that  way,  to  account  for  the 
one  I  had. 

Jon  kept  on  planning  while  we  walks  toward 
the  kitchen.  When  we  got  near,  Evelyn  poked 
her  head  out  from  the  stairway,  with  a  candle 
in  her  hand,  like  she  expected  to  find  us  all 
there.  But,  when  she  halted  and  saw  that  no 
one  was  there  but  Dave,  asleep,  a  cunning  kind 
of  look  came  on  her  face  and  she,  quick,  blew 
out  the  candle.  In  a  minute  we  saw  her  come 
out  the  door  on  tiptoes  and  watch  about  for  us. 
Then  she  hurried  to  that  place  where  the  spool 
had  dropped  and  hunted  for  it  in  the  grass. 
Some  one  came  along  the  road.  Maybe  she 
thought  it  was  us.  She  runs  on  her  tiptoes 
back  and  through  the  kitchen,  up  to  her  room. 

"Jon,"  I  asks,  "what  do  you  make  of  that?" 

"She  needed  her  spool,"  says  Jon. 

"It  was  empty,"  says  I. 


WAR 

"Well,"  laughs  Jon,  "can't  you  imagine  some 
use  for  an  empty  spool  ?" 

"Not  since  you  made  dog-wagons  with 
them,"  says  I,  "and,  anyhow,  there  are  dozens 
of  them  right  where  she  came  from." 

"But  not  one  of  them  the  right  size,  I  sup 
pose,  just  as  I  used  to  find  out  when  I  made 
the  aforesaid  dog-wagons  of  at  least  three 
different  sizes  of  spools,  sometimes  four." 


S 


XVII 

C.  S.  A. 

O  Jonathan  fixed  the  old  flint  that  she'd 
go  off  the  first  time  instead  of  the  tenth, 
and  loaded  her  with  about  a  pint  of  buckshot, 
and  one  night  Jon  he  watched,  the  next  I  did. 
And  the  funny  thing  about  it  was  that  no  one 
else  in  the  house  knew  a  thing  about  it.  Except 
they  pestered  me  about  being  so  sleepy. 

Once  in  a  while  I  came  near  ending  the  life 
of  one  of  the  neighbors,  but  they  always  took 
me  for  what  I  took  them,  suspicious,  and  made 
sufficient  explanations.  We  use'  to  pull  our 
fiats  down  so's  no  one  would  know  us,  and  talk 
in  a  changed  voice.  Even  wore  handkerchiefs 
over  the  lower  part  of  our  faces. 

We  would  go  to  bed  in  the  usual  way,  then 
the  one  who  was  to  stand  watch  would  sneak 
up.  That  was  the  hard  part  of  it — getting  up 
153 


WAR 

after  going  to  bed  and  fooling  the  sleep  with 
the  notion  that  it  was  all  fixed  till  morning. 
Mostly,  Jon  had  to  wake  me,  or  there  would 
have  been  no  watch.  And  often  I  have  to  ad 
mit  Jon  was  good  to  me  and  watched  two 
nights  in  succession — when  he  came  and  heard 
me  snoring  so  in  earnest.  I  admit  I  have  a  big 
snore. 

I  had  never  been  about  much  at  night.  And 
snooping  now  in  the  light  of  the  moon  made 
honest  things  look  queer,  and  made  me  ac 
quainted  with  many  queer  things  which  had 
looked  honest. 

The  way  the  lights  used  to  perform  in  Ben 
Crider's  garret  window  was  a  caution.  Some 
times  it  was  a  regular  dance.  And  there  were 
whistles  and  horns  blowing  now  and  then,  and 
all  sorts  of  creepy  shadows  and  things,  and 
rapid  riders. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  though  I  don't 

like  to  admit  it,  I  was  afraid  to  be  out  alone  at 

night.     It  got  me  so  nervous  that  I  was  ready 

to  fire  at  the  bunnies  I  wakened  out  of  their 

154 


C.  S.  A. 

naps.  And  if  I  trod  on  a  twig  and  it  broke, 
I  flew  around  with  my  carbine  cocked,  ready 
to  murder  the  twig.  I  began  to  wish  the  watch 
ing  was  done  with.  But  these  very  things 
showed  us  the  necessity  for  it. 

But  the  worst  of  it  was  that  I  discovered 
— *and  Jon,  too,  for  that  matter — that  we 
weren't  the  only  ones  out  at  night  with  guns, 
watching.  There  was  a  regular  ring  about  the 
place  we  couldn't  break  through.  Every  now 
and  then  some  one  would  challenge  us  and  turn 
us  back.  I  don't  know  whether  or  not  they 
knew  us,  but  we  never  knew  them,  and  they 
didn't  seem  like  neighbors.  Jon  says  they 
know  us  and  are  keeping  us  under  watch.  He 
says  that  one  night  some  one  pulled  his  hat  up 
to  see  who  he  was,  and  seemed  disappointed. 

"Of  course,  they  all  know  you,  daddy,"  he 
laughs. 

"Why  so?"  asks  I. 

"Because  of  your  language,"  laughs  he 
again. 

"But  I  never  talk." 

155 


AVAR 

"Yes,"  he  says,  "you  talk  to  yourself." 

"Only  when  there's  nobody  about,"  says  I. 

"Only  when  you  think  there's  nobody 
about,"  laughs  Jon.  "But,  if  you  want  to 
make  sure  of  that,  you  got  to  search  all  the 
bushes  and  things  which  might  hide  a  man  lay 
ing  down,  or  up  in  a  tree,  within  twenty  yards 
of  you." 

"Now,  you  don't  tell  me  it's  as  bad  as  that, 
Jonthy?"  I  says. 

Then  Jon  took  the  back  track — thinking  he'd 
scared  me. 

"No,  no !  All  we  got  to  do  is  to  be  straight 
Union — as  we  are — all  of  us !" 

"Jonthy,"  says  I,  though,  "it's  a  creepy  busi 
ness — watching  and  being  watched  like  this. 
Is  there  anything  to  stop  it?" 

Jon  hesitates  a  little,  then  he  says,  as  if  he 
didn't  like  to : 

"Yes,  daddy — enlisting." 

"Then,  according  to  that,  you  don't  think  it's 
our  neighbors  we  meet — doing  just  as  we  are 
doing?" 

156 


C.  S.  A. 

Jonathan  hesitates  a  minute,  then  he  says : 

"Yes,  yes,  daddy,  of  course.  That's  all  it 
is.  Forget  it — and  be  careful." 

Evelyn  cried  a  good  deal  now,  and  lost  her 
color.  But  how  she  did  love  Dave!  When 
they  met  she  would  just  fly  at  him !  And  she'd 
tell  him  that  it  would  soon  be  over  now — soon 
be  over.  Only,  instead  of  feeling  almost  like 
a  bride,  she'd  always  burst  into  tears  when 
she  said  that.  At  last  Jon  figured  it  all  out  on 
a  grand  scale.  Dave  and  Evelyn  were  both 
fooling  us.  What  was  going  on  was  prepara 
tions  for  a  wedding.  Evelyn  was  making  her 
own  trousseau. 

"Then,  some  day,  all  of  a  sudden,  we'll  be 
up  against  a  wedding  and  the  joke  will  be  ex 
pected  to  be  on  you  and  me.  Be  ready  to  laugh." 

"Jon,"  says  I,  touching  his  head,  "some 
one's  getting  queer.  Is  it  you  ?" 

"Well,  daddy,"  laughs  he,  happier  than  any 
of  them  about  that  wedding,  "do  you  expect 
a  girl  to  work  day  after  day  on  her  trousseau 
without  tears?" 

157 


_S  WAR 

"Of  joy,  I  expect,"  says  I,  for  a  joke. 

"For  joy,"  nods  Jon,  serious.  "Why,  daddy, 
a  young  girl's  wedding  is  the  most  wonderful 
thing  in  her  whole  life!" 

"Mine  wasn't.  But  I  suppose  you're  think 
ing  about  the  time  you  were  a  young  girl.  And 
how  many  times  you  were  married !"  says  I, 
for  another  joke  on  Jon. 

But  he  laughs  and  understands,  this  time, 
and  hugs  me  so  that  I  thought  my  ribs  were 
cracked. 

"You  see,  daddy,"  Jon  goes  on,  "I  have 
known  this  for  a  long  time,  and  if  you'll  come 
with  me  I'll  show  you  and  prove  my  faith  in 
my  own  prophecy." 

He  drags  me  behind  the  barn,  where  he  has 
a  nice  little  hotbed  with  some  funny  flowers 
in  it. 

"Well,  that's  nice  and  unexpected,"  says  I, 
"but  go  on  and  prove  it.  These  are  flowers; 
that's  a  wedding.  What's  the  answer?  Please 
tell  me." 

"There's  the  answer,"  laughs  old  Jon. 
158 


C.  S.  A. 

"Those  orchids.  They're  some  of  the  frailest 
and  rarest  flowers  in  the  world  and  I  am  rais 
ing  them  for  Evelyn's  wedding!  Orchids. 
Nothing  less  would  be  appropriate.  You're  not 
to  tell.  If  they  think  they  are  going  to  surprise 
us,  this  will  tell  them  that  they  haven't  suc 
ceeded." 

We  stood  there  a  minute,  and  the  smile 
faded  from  old  Jonthy's  face.  Maybe  he  was 
thinking  of  the  time  before  Dave  came  home. 

"Jonthy,"  says  I,  "it  would  be  a  sin  not  to 
believe  it.  I'll  try.  Also  I'll  remember  the 
name :  orchids." 

And  I  takes  him  away  from  there. 

On  my  watch  one  night  I  saw  Evelyn  about 
midnight  open  the  window  for  air.  I  could 
see  her  holding  up  some  sort  of  garment  with 
gold  braid  on  it.  I  snooped  as  near  as  I  could 
to  try  and  see  what  it  was  and  then  have  fun 
with  her  about  it.  No  use.  But,  as  I  went  on 
my  toes,  I  struck  something  with  my  foot  and 
picked  it  up.  It  was  a  brass  button.  I  put  it 
into  my  pocket. 

159 


WAR 

I  had  forgotten  about  it  the  next  day,  and 
pulls  it  out  accidental  when  Jon  and  me  is 
together. 

"Why,  daddy,  where  did  you  get  that?" 
yells  Jon,  taking  it  from  me.  "No  wonder 
we're  under  suspicion!" 

It  was  a  brass  button  with  C.  S.  A.  stamped 
on  it. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "there  have  been  plenty  of 
Confederate  soldiers  at  about  the  place  where 
I  found  it,  more  than  once." 

"Or,"  says  Jon,  "some  Union  soldier  may 
have  sewed  it  on  his  coat  in  place  of  one  with 
U.  S.  A.  on  it.  Or,  one  of  them  might  even 
have  been  wearing  a  Confederate  coat.  They 
do  such  things." 

I  was  looking  at  it  then. 

"It's  bran'  new,  Jonthy,"  says  I. 

"No,"  says  Jonathan,  "not  new." 

"That's  rust — from  the  wet  grass." 

"Well,"  laughs  Jonathan,  "Old  Suspicious, 
what's  the  answer?" 

"You  don't  think  Evelyn  might  have 
1 60 


C.  S.  A. 

dropped  it — thrown  it  away?  It  was  about  the 
time  she  turned  Union.  Or,  maybe — That's 
not  the  'spool'?" 

"No,"  laughs  Jon. 

But,  then,  as  usual,  it  came  to  him. 

"Why,  yes,  she  might  have  dropped  it,  poor 
girl !  It  may  be  a  souvenir — possibly,  only 
think,  daddy,  cut  from  her  'father's  coat',  and 
sent  to  her.  She  might  have  thrown  it  away 
so  as  not  to  hurt  our  feelings — and  be  loyal  to 
us ! — then  repented.  Think  what  a  sacrifice ! 
For  us  and  the  Union !  Of  course,  she'd  be  shy 
of  letting  us  know  about  repenting  the  sacrifice, 
but  that  doesn't  lessen  its  greatness.  And  that 
would  explain  the  other  night.  Shall  we  give 
it  to  her?" 

"Sure !"  says  I,  handing  it  out  to  him. 

Then,  again,  after  a  while,  it  came  right. 

"No.  Then  she'd  know  we  knew  her  dear 
little  secret.  To-night  I'll  put  it  back  where  it 
was — but  so  plain  in  sight  she  can't  miss  it. 
Maybe  she's  still  hunting  for  ic.  To-night's 
my  watch." 

161 


WAR 

And  nice  old  Jon  told  me  the  next  day  that 
she  had  come  down  in  her  nightie  and  looked 
for  it,  and  had  found  it. 

"Poor  little  girl!  She  was  so  happy!  I'm 
glad  she  didn't  know  we  knew.  She  cried. 
Her  very  heart  seemed  broken." 

"But  why  should  her  heart  seem  broke?''  I 
asks. 

Well — Jon  didn't  know. 


XVIII 

WHAT  IS  GREATER   THAN    PATRIOTISM? 

'"TON  and  me  were  sitting  on  the  front  porch 
*J  there,  in  our  shirt-sleeves,  one  night,  and 
Dave  and  Evelyn  were  out  under  the  plum 
trees  yonder,  when  the  brass  cornet  band  came 
along  playing,  "We  Are  Coming,  Father  Abra 
ham,  Three  Hundred  Thousand  Strong."  And 
there  was  a  procession,  with  a  banner  telling 
that  there  was  to  be  a  meeting  in  town  that 
night  to  raise  a  company  of  Union  soldiers. 

After  the  band  had  passed  we  sat  still  a  long 
time.    Jon  was  looking  straight  ahead  and  we 
-  could  hear  the  voices  of  Dave  and  Evelyn. 
Mostly   it  was  only  the  murmuring  of   two 
people   in   love.      But  now   and   then   Dave's 
laugh  would  break  out,  and  then  Evelyn's — 
different,  nicer — would  join.    At  last  we  could 
hear  Dave  singing  that : 
163 


WAR 

"Du  hast  das  Herze  mein, 
So  ganz  genommen  em— 

After  a  while  Evelyn  joined,  like  she  was 
saying  the  same  thing.  Jon  turned  and  looked 
that  way,  just  once.  It  was  the  same  song  he 
had  sung  to  her — but  different.  Dave  made  it 
gay.  And  Evelyn  was  joining  in.  I  saw  his 
face.  He  was  trying  to  smile  at  their  happi 
ness,  but  his  own  suffering  came  through — and 
there  it  was :  joy  and  sorrow  in  one  smile.  And 
on  such  a  face  as  Jon's — which  told  everything ! 

Said  I,  to  take  him  away  from  it : 

"Now  the  coal-oil  torches  those  boys  car 
ried  for  the  band  has  spoiled  the  air.  Suppose 
we  go  in,  Jonthy?" 

But  Jon  didn't  move.  I  think  he  didn't  hear 
me.  Finally  he  said  : 

"They  were  right!" 

"Who,"  says  I,  "who  was  right?" 

"The  Union  soldiers.  Everybody  but  us. 
One  of  us  ought  to  go.  One  of  us  must.  Then 
the  others  won't  have  to.  It's  hard,  but  neces 
sary.  There's  not  a  family  in  Maryland  with 
164 


GREATER    THAN    PATRIOTISM 

three  men  left  in  it.  No  wonder  they  suspect 
us.  I  don't  see  how  we've  escaped  the  draft." 
"Not  on  your  life!"  says  I,  very  savage.  "I 
want  my  boys  in  one  piece  and  all  together  in 
the  same  place — in  case  of  fire  in  the  chimley. 
You  know  I  couldn't  put  it  out  myself,  be- 
£ause  it's  hard  enough,  sometimes,  for  all  of 
us.  And  just  think  of  Betsy  as  a  fireman !" 

"And,"  says  Jon,  never  noticing  how  funny 
that  was,  "the  right  one  has  got  to  go." 

"Who  do  you  think  is  the  right  one?"  asks  I. 
"I  am,"  nods  Jon. 

Well,  when  Jon  decided  to  do  a  thing,  there 
was  no  use  trying  to  stop  him.  The  best  was 
to  go  along  and  persuade  him. 
He  got  up  and  put  on  his  coat. 
"Well,"  I  says,  to  humor  him,  "suppose  we 
go  and  see  what  fools  they  make  of  them 
selves,  enlisting  to  get  shot.  That's  one  way  to 
not  get  a  Union  company  up.  Why  don't  they 
come  around  with  a  secret  subscription  paper! 
Nobody's  going  to  enlist  in  a  Union  company 
right  out  in  public." 

165 


"Come,  then,"  says  Jon,  hurrying  me,  as  if 
he  had  decided  it  and  a  load  was  off  his  mind. 

"All  right,"  says  I.  "If  we  can't  enlist  our 
selves,  we  can  whoop  it  up  so's  maybe  the 
other  fellows'll  go.  But  you  can't  raise  no 
whole  Union  company  round  here  for  a  million 
dollars." 

"Yes,  that's  necessary,  too,"  says  Jon.  "Our 
presence  there  will  do  good.  Come!" 

"But  I'll  be  on  hand  to  discourage  you — yes, 
and  lam  you,  if  it  goes  too  far." 

"Daddy,"  smiles  Jon,  "it  will  go  as  far  as 
the  front!  You  don't  know  the  news  about 
here.  There's  been  a  change." 

"Shall  we  take  the  guns?"  says  I. 

"No,"  says  Jon,  "we'll  only  make  trouble 
with  'em  and  be  tempted  to  shoot.  The  time  is 
not  yet — to  shoot." 

But  we  hadn't  gone  far  before  a  man  with 
a  gun  steps  out  in  the  road  and  says : 

"Halt,  Lucas  Mallory!" 

"There,"  says  I  to  Jon,  "it's  war  already; 
that's  what  comes  of  not  taking  our  guns  along. 
I  could  get  him  easy  while  he's  bothering  you." 
1 66 


GREATER   THAN    PATRIOTISM 

Jon  kind  of  laughs  and  points  to  another 
man  with  a  gun  who  was  coming  to  join  the 
first  one. 

"Neither  of  us  knows  Lucas  Mallory,"  says 
Jon,  polite  as  a  dancing  master,  instead  of 
fighty,  like  me,  "nor  is  either  of  us  he.  I  am 
*Mr.  Jonathan  Vonner.  This  is  my  father, 
Stephen  Vonner.  Now,  may  we  pass  ?" 

"Oh!"  they  says,  disappointed,  looking  close. 
"Wrong  one." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asks  the  first  one. 
"And  where's  your  other  reputed  son?" 

"You're  further  than  usual  from  home  to 
night,"  says  the  second  one,  "in  a  southerly 
direction." 

"None  of  your  business,"  says  I,  still  fighty. 
"I've  lived  here  since  seventeen-ten — and  my 
ancestors,  I'm  not  that  old  myself  alone — and 
I  don't  think  I'll  ask  anybody  when  I  want  to 
go  away  from  my  house  a  little,  north,  east, 
south  or  west,  or  prove  that  my  sons  are  my 
sons.  None  of  your  business." 

"Yes,  daddy,"  says  Jon,  in  that  polite  way, 
"it  is  some  of  their  business.  These  men  are 
167 


iWAR 

here  for  our  protection.  If  you  will  look  close 
ly  you  will  see  that  they  are  in  the  uniform  of 
the  United  States." 

Well,  that  was  so.  And  they  seemed  a  little 
less  fighty  at  Jon's  great  politeness.  So  I  let 
him  do  the  talking. 

"We  are  going  to  town  to  enlist  in  the  Union 
army,"  Jon  goes  on,  with  the  oil  all  ready 
for  the  water,  "and  my  brother  Dave  is  at 
home.  That  accounts  for  all  of  us." 

Well,  that  flabbergasts  'em  still  more. 

"I  should  say  that  one  of  us  is  going  to  en 
list,"  Goliath  amends. 

"Which  one?"  asks  the  first  soldier. 

"I,"  answers  Jon.  "There's  a  meeting  in 
Excelsior  to-night  to  organize  a  Union  com 
pany." 

Well,  Jon's  answers  got  'em  so  that  they 
didn't  know  what  to  do.  They  whispered 
together  a  little,  then  one  of  'em  says : 

"On  your  word  of  honor,  is  that  your  er 
rand?" 

168 


GREATER    THAN    PATRIOTISM 

"On  my  word  or  honor,"  says  Jon,  holding 
up  his  right  hand. 

"We'll  know  if  you  don't  enlist,"  says  the 
other  soldier. 

"Certainly,"  says  Jon. 

"However,"  asks  the  second  one,  "your  sup 
posed  brother  Dave  doesn't  intend  to  enlist?" 

"No,"  says  Jon. 

"Why?"  asks  the  soldier. 

Jon  smiles  and  says: 

"He's  got  better  and  more  important  busi 
ness  on  hand." 

"Oh !"  says  one.    "He's  at  home  now?" 

"Pass,"  says  the  other.    "Enough." 

I  heard  one  say  to  the  other  as  we  went  on : 

"We  ought  to  know  which  of  the  three  it  is 
now!" 

"Yes,"  says  the  other  one. 

"It  must  be  a  secret  from  these  two.  They're 
all  right" 

"Now,    what    do   you    think    that    means, 
Jonthy?"  says  I. 

169 


WAR 

"That  the  sooner  one  of  us  enlists  the  bet 
ter.  That  will  take  all  this  watching  and 
threatening  and  suspicion  away.  Some  of  our 
kind  secessionist  neighbors  are  giving  us  en 
tirely  too  much  attention.  And  I  suppose  many 
things  we  do  innocently  add  confirmation. 
Even  the  night-watching,  for  purely  honest 
reasons,  has  probably  been  the  worst  thing  we 
could  have  done.  The  Union  pickets  take  it  for 
something  entirely  different.  And  something 
disloyal,  no  doubt — such  as  protecting  the  work 
of  the  Knights  and  sympathizers. 

As  we  passed  old  Jake  Kimmelwasser's 
house,  he  was  sitting  on  the  porch  all  dressed 
up  in  the  uniform  he  had  worn  in  Mexico. 
He  had  got  a  wound  in  the  head  at  Chapul- 
tepec  and  was  crazy.  Every  time  they  raised 
a  new  company,  Union  or  Confederate,  he  en 
listed — and  then  went  home  to  bed  and  forgot 
it.  Now  he  came  running  out,  and,  like  we; — 
Jon  and  me — was  a  whole  regiment,  he  drilled 
us  clear  into  the  town — making  us  march  and 
countermarch,  wheel  and  oblique — till  he  fell 
170 


GREATER   THAN    PATRIOTISM 

backward  in  some  mud  and  had  to  stop  and 
clean  his  uniform — of  which  he  was  mighty 
proud. 

To  me  it  was  foolish.     I  got  mad.     But  to 
Jon  it  was  a  great  lesson.     He  obeyed  every 
order. 
*  Says  he : 

"There  is  a  crazy  man.  And  what  is  it  sur 
vives  in  him?  Not  love,  not  the  recollection 
of  his  wife,  his  children;  only  the  vast  patriot 
ism  of  that  day  is  left.  We  have  laughed  be 
cause  he  enlists  always.  But  he  might  laugh, 
if  he  knew,  because  we  never  enlist." 

"Off  in  the  clouds,  Jonthy,"  says  I.  "I'm  on 
the  earth.  Come  back.  Be  merciful  to  me,  a 
sinner." 

"Ah,  daddy,"  laughs  Jon,  "I  am  learning 
something!  This  enlisting  brings  it  out." 

"What?    Quick — before  it  gets  away!" 

"That  there  is  something  greater  even  than 
love." 

"Well,  well!    Who'd  have  thought  it?    And 
from  sentimental  Jon!    But  I'm  glad  to  hear 
171 


WAR 

it.  Now,  I  can  sleep  of  nights  once  more. 
What  is  it?" 

"Patriotism !"  say  Jon. 

"Jonthy,  it  smells  like  whisky,"  says  I, 
"when  you  get  among  it.  You'll  see  when  we 
reach  town." 

But  after  I  thought  of  it,  I  was  glad  that 
Jon  had  found  something  to  take  the  place  of 
love — even  if  he  only  imagined  it. 


XIX 

WHAT  JONATHAN  FOUND  TO  TAKE  HER  PLACE 

9> 

THE  whole  little  town  was  in  the  Square, 
and  were  as  crazy  as  old  Jake.  But  it 
wasn't,  like  his,  that  they  all  wanted  to  fight 
the  rebels.  It  was  just  the  other  way.  For 
the  boys  had  been  coming  home  in  rough  pine 
boxes  mighty  fast  of  late.  They  wanted  to 
fight — but  not  the  rebels.  Something  safer. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  bad  whisky  about  just 
as  I  told  Jon — and  more  hard  talk.  A  few  was 
for  "On  to  Richmond" — for  the  others.  Some 
was  for  shooting  Burnside.  Others  was  just 
crazy  to  tell  what  they  would  do  if  they  was 
Lincoln  or  Davis.  But  I  didn't  hear  a  soul  who 
was  crazy  to  enlist.  A  couple  of  houses  were 
illuminated  to  show  that  they  were  Union. 
And  it  was  strange  that  these  were  houses 
where  the  Union  flag  in  the  window  was  tied 

173 


WAR 

with  crepe.  Jon  said  it  was  mighty  brave  to  do 
it.  Anyhow,  the  windows  was  broke  in  these 
houses.  But  most  of  the  dwellings  were  dark. 
There  were  two  little  newspapers  printed  in  the 
town,  one  Union,  and  one  Democrat  The 
Union  office  had  about  a  hundred  tallow 
candles  burning  in  the  windows. — "Just  for 
spite" — as  a  card  in  the  window  said.  And 
there  was  a  large  placard  in  front  with  this 
on  it: 

WE  ARE  COMING  FATHER 

ABRAHAM  !— 
NOT  QUITE  300,000  MORE — 

BUT  100  MORE — 

AND  RIGHT  OUT  OF  DARKEST 
EGYPT! 

At  "Egypt"  there  was  a  hand  pointing  to 
the  Democrat  office. 

That  was  dark,  and  had  some  of  its  windows 
broken,  too,  while  the  mischievous  boys  in  the 
procession  poked  their  torches  through  the 
broken  panes  and  tried  to  set  the  place  afire. 
Other  rowdy  boys  were  trying  to  stop  them, 
174 


WHAT   JONATHAN    FOUND 

till  the  men  took  part ;  and  at  last  a  crowd  with 
guns  and  scythes  and  pitchforks  marched  down 
the  street  and  took  charge  as  vigilantes,  and 
said  the  meeting  should  go  on.  And  in  peace. 
It  was  a  case  of  fair  play.  And  so  it  did. 

You    could    see    that    the    sentiments    was 
f 
changing.     It  wouldn't  have  been  possible  to 

hold  that  meeting  a  little  while  before.  It 
wasn't  easy  now.  Any  one,  no  matter  who, 
that  hung  out  a  Union  flag  would  have  been 
mobbed.  And  there  was  no  vigilantes  then  to 
see  fair  play.  There  was  only  one  kind  of  fair 
play  a  little  while  ago. 

In  the  middle  of  the  Square,  Kratz,  the  edi 
tor  of  the  Union  paper,  got  on  a  box  and  made 
a  speech : 

"Enough  men,"  says  he,  "has  gone  out  of 
this  neighborhood  to  make  a  regiment.  But  the 
most  of  them  have  gone  the  wrong  way.  And 
there  are  many  more  who  would  go  that  way 
if  they  weren't  afraid  of  powder  and  lead. 
That's  all  that  keeps  them  here  eating  us  up 
who  have  hardly  enough  for  ourselves.  I'd 
175 


WAR 

rather  see  'em  go.  Aren't  we  drinking  parched 
rye  for  coffee — and  only  a  little  of  that?  Don't 
we  pay  a  dollar  a  pound  for  musty  flour?  And 
glad  to  get  it — when  we  have  the  dollar.  And 
it  takes  two  of  them  now  to  make  one.  No 
one  is  working,  all  are  righting.  But  the  se 
cessionists  are  gone,  to  jail  or  elsewhere — 
thanks  to  Ben  Butler — and  this  is  a  Union  and 
not  a  rebel  place  now." 

He  yells  that  so  hard  that  the  houses  rattled. 
And,  Lord,  what  yells  answered  him !  And  the 
names  they  called  him !  But  the  old  boys  with 
the  pitchforks  turned  their  backs  to  the  editor, 
and  their  forks  and  scythes  to  the  crowd,  and, 
maybe,  it  was  correct  that  they  were  cowards 
— as  Kratz  called  'em — them  outside  the 
scythes.  For  they  said  they  would  tear  his 
insides  out — but  no  one  came  to  do  it.  The  edi 
tor  is  game  and  yells  it  at  'em  again : 

"This  is  a  Union  town  and  not  a  rebel  town, 

now,  I  say.    And  I  have  just  proved  it.    Out 

there,  the  further  away  the  better  for  them, 

they  have  threatened  to  kill  me.     .Well,  does 

176 


WHAT    JONATHAN    FOUND 

any  one  come  to  do  it?    There's  rebellion  for 
you !    Wind ! 

"I  thought  the  government  had  got  all  the 
traitors.  There's  a  few  left.  But  don't  you 
worry  out  there !  I  see  you.  Your  names  will 
be  in  my  paper  to-morrow.  And  that'll  go 
straight  to  Washington.  By  God,  I'm  going  to 
see  that  what  I  just  said  is  true.  That  this  is  a 
Union  town  now.  Don't  worry  out  there !  I 
expect  the  government  has  missed  a  few  of 
you.  But  I  know  who  you  are,  and  if  Uncle 
Sam  don't  get  every  sympathizer  and  Knight, 
and  secessionist  and  Copperhead  and  spy  in 
this  county,  you  can  blame  it  on  me !  Yes,  and 
take  it  out  of  me — if  you  dare! 

"Why,  you  are  the  scum  of  the  rebellion. 
I  respect  those  secessionists  among  us,  who, 
thinking  they  were  right,  went  into  the  South 
ern  armies  to  prove  it.  I  say  so  in  my  paper. 
I  have  nothing  against  the  rebel  who  fights  and 
takes  his  chances  with  powder  and  lead.  He's 
a  man!  But  such  left-overs  as  you — stragglers 
— hangers-on — whose  only  weapon  is  their 
177 


WAR 

mouth — spying  and  lying — taking  no  risk  your 
selves — eating  our  substance  and  then  bringing 
the  provost  guard  down  on  us — by  the  Lord, 
if  I  were  Lincoln,  I'd  hang  every  one  of  you 
on  sight — as  he  is  entitled  to  do  with  spies. 
And,  if  I  can  bring  it  about,  that's  what's  going 
to  happen  to  you — and  mighty  soon !  My  ad 
vice  to  you  is  to  go  into  the  rebel  army  to  save 
your  lives!  Though  it's  full  of  gentlemen — 
the  rebel  army — and  God  knows  what  they'd 
do  with  such  as  you!  You'd  be  out  of  your 
class." 

Well,  I  don't  know  if  Kratz  was  fooling  or 
not.  But  he  certainly  scared  'em  some,  like  I 
never  knowed  'em  to  be  scared  before.  They 
didn't  make  so  much  noise  after  that  nor  show 
themselves  so  much;  and  some  of  'em  sneaked 
away.  He  had  a  much  better  chance  to  make 
his  speech. 

"What  I  was  going  to  say,  fellow  citizens, 

was  that  though  this  is  a  Union  and  not  a  rebel 

place,  and  though  we  have  about  a  hundred 

men  in  the  Union  army,  they  have  gone  to  the 

178 


WHAT   JONATHAN    FOUND 

front  and  enlisted  as  individuals  because  we 
have  been  afraid  to  come  out  with  our  colors 
and  organize  a  full  company.  Fellow  citizens, 
we  have  not  had  the  honor  of  sending  to  the 
front  a  company  like  other  towns,  carrying  our 
own  flag,  wearing  the  uniforms  we  have  put  on 
th£m,  carrying  the  muskets  we  have  placed  in 
their  hands,  bearing  into  the  fight  our  name! 
And  this  has  hurt  me,  it  hurts  you,  it  hurts  our 
dear  little  town.  Don't  you  suppose  that  that 
man  down  at  Washington,  bearing  our  sor 
rows,  has  looked  at  the  map,  has  seen  our 
name,  has  wondered  whether  we  have  sent  him 
a  company,  has  been  told  that  we  have  not? 
And  what  other  town  on  the  map  tells  him  such 
a  tale?  Boys,  boys,  do  you  want  this  war 
fought  out  without  having  helped?  If  you 
can  stand  it  I  can't.  I'm  going  to  let  you  get 
your  news  from  there,  such  as  it  is — " 

He  turned  and  pointed  to  the  Democrat 
office. 

" — and  I  am  going  to  fight.  But,  for  the 
honor  and  glory  of  our  town,  I  want  to  go  with 
179 


WAR 

a  hundred  of  my  neighbors.  I  want  to  march 
straight  to  the  White  House  door,  draw  up  be 
fore  it  and  say  to  the  President :  'Father  Abra 
ham,  we  have  redeemed  ourselves !  Here,  when 
the  cause  is  at  its  lowest,  when  the  outlook  is 
darkest,  when  even  patriots  are  saying  that 
your  war  is  a  failure,  we  come  to  tell  you  that  it 
is  not.  We  come  to  cheer  you,  to  hold  up  your 
tired  hands  and  say,  On,  yes,  by  the  Lord  God ! 
on  to  Richmond !  One  more  grand  effort  and 
it  is  done!  There  are  still  a  million  soldiers, 
like  us,  waiting  for  precisely  this  moment, 
which  comes  in  every  struggle — the  moment 
when  the  contest  wavers !  Call  them ;  they  will 
come  as  we  have  come  without  calling.  We 
have  sent  you  our  money,  we  have  sent  you  our 
grain  and  pork  and  lead  and  powder  and  cloth ; 
but  now  we  send  you  one  hundred  men.  And 
from  Maryland !' ' 

Well,  there  was  a  thrill  abroad,  at  last.  The 
calling  of  names  and  the  fighting  had  stopped 
and  it  was  serious. 

The  editor  pulled  a  sheet  of  paper  out  of 
1 80 


WHAT   JONATHAN    FOUND 

his  pocket  and  wrote  his  name  with  a  splendid 
dash. 

"There's  my  name — about  the  middle  of  the 
sheet — as  evidence  of  my  sincerity.  I  leave  my 
business,  my  wife,  my  babies,  in  poverty.  I 
have  got  to  go.  There  is  something  inside  that 
compels  me.  Now,  who'll  be  the  second  man 
of  one  hundred  to  put  his  name  down  with 
mine?" 

No  one  answered. 

"Who  wants  to  stand  beside  me  and  see  the 
glory  on  that  worn  old  face  in  the  White 
House,  when  we  stand  at  parade  before  him? 
Who  wants  to  feel  the  grasp  of  that  big  honest 
hand?  I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  a  mint.  I 
want  to  hear  him  call  us  his  children.  I  want 
to  call  him  by  that  simple,  homely,  but  glorious 
name,  Father  Abraham.  I  want  my  babies 
to  know  it  all.  And  then,  by  the  God  above  us, 
I  want  to  go  out  and  fight  for  him — die  for 
him — if  it  must  be.  Oh,  yes!  I  know.  I 
see,  as  well  as  you,  the  lead-lined  boxes  at  the 
station.  I  know !  But  you  know  how  we  bury 
181 


WAR 

them.  To  the  Dead  March.  With  flags  and 
flowers  and  troops  of  children,  sobbing,  sob 
bing.  You  know  that  not  one  who  had  died 
here  in  his  bed  would  be  so  remembered.  But 
you  know,  too,  that  all  those  who  come  back 
that  way  are  our  heroes — immortal ; — yes,  even 
when  they  come  in  gray!  And  you  know  that 
there  is  nothing  on  earth  that  will  ever  make 
you  forget  them.  Tell  me,  each  one  of  you,  if 
you  had  to  choose  a  form  of  death,  wouldn't 
you  choose  that?  Well,  some  day  you  must 
choose  death.  Come  with  me  and  choose  one 
that  is  sweet  and  glorious  beyond  words !" 

Still  no  one  said  a  word. 

"Of  course  it  goes  hard  in  a  place  where  the 
Union  element  has  been  afraid,  so  far,  to  show 
its  face.  I  appreciate  that  it  is  going  to  take 
courage  for  any  man  to  walk  up  here  and  be 
spotted  by  the  spies  and  informers,  with  the 
chance  of  some  Knight  assassinating  him  by 
command  of  the  order.  But,  I  tell  you,  the 
times  have  changed.  We  have  settled  down. 
We  have  thought.  We  have  had  war  enough  to 
182 


WHAT  JONATHAN   FOUND 

know  what  it  is.  We  didn't  at  first.  It  was  a 
grand  spree !  A  holiday  parade !  It  didn't  mat 
ter  so  much  when  some  one  else  was  doing  the 
fighting,  and  we  were  comfortable  at  home. 
But  the  war  is  at  our  doors  now,  and  bare  liv 
ing  has  grown  so  hard  that  something  must 
happen — and  soon.  And,  now,  right  now, 
boys,  is  the  time  to  make  it  happen — before 
the  country  is  destroyed.  And  you  can  do  it — 
you!  Come!  Don't  you  want  to ?" 

Again  Kratz  waits,  but  not  a  word.  He 
looks  all  about  to  catch  an  eye.  But  all  look 
away. 

"The  man  who  puts  his  name  down  next," 
says  the  editor,  "will  be  an  officer.  He  may 
have  the  captaincy.  I  don't  want  it.  My  God ! 
Don't  that  move  some  one  ?  Don't  you  all  want 
to  be  captain  or  lieutenant?" 

No  one  seemed  to  want  to  be  an  officer — 
though  soldier  companies  was  about  half  offi 
cers  until  they  got  to  the  front. 

"Good  God!  Is  it  possible!"  says  Kratz, 
wiping  the  tears  out  of  his  eyes.  "I  have 


WAR 

lived  among  you  all  my  life.  I  was  born  here. 
And  you  are  going  to  send  me  out  alone.  You 
are  going  to  let  me  say  to  Father  Abraham — 
'Father,  I  come  alone.  They  were  tried  and 
found  wanting!  There  were  more  than  two 
thousand  strong  men  listening  to  me  as  I  told 
them  how  badly  you  needed  only  one  hundred 
of  them  in  this  the  darkest  hour  of  your  war. 
Yet,  out  of  that  host,  not  one  was  burning  to 
write  his  name  upon  his  country's  roll  of 
glory!'" 

All  stood  mute. 

"'Not  one  was  ready  to  die  that  his  country 
might  live  undivided.  All  were  willing  that 
those  who  have  already  died  in  this  great  cause, 
shall  have  died  in  vain.  All  were  willing  that 
the  glorious  fruits  of  victory,  just  within  our 
grasp,  for  a  final  great  effort,  shall  be  handed 
over  to  the  enemy.'  Come !  I  ask  you  for  the 
last  time,  is  there  not  one — but  one ! — who  will 
put  his  name  here  with  mine?" 

It  was  quieter  than  ever  while  he  waited, 
and  he  drooped  his  head  and  was  turning  away, 
184 


WHAT   JONATHAN    FOUND 

when  Jon  steps  up  quiet  as  a  May  morning, 
and  says : 

"I  will." 

And  do  you  think  that  I  could  say  a  word  ? 
No.  I  was  so  worked  up  with  the  thoughts  that 
editor  had  made  me  think,  that  if  Jon  hadn't 
spoken  I  would.  Well,  it  was  good  to  see  that 
poor  devil  of  an  editor  rise  from  despair  to 
glory.  He  faced  Jon  about  so  the  crowd  could 
see  him.  He  could  hardly  talk.  He  was  crying 
like  a  baby. 

"After  all,  friends,"  he  choked  out,  "I'm 
glad  you  didn't  hurry.  Look  at  your  second 
Union  soldier — your  first,  in  fact!  Did  you 
ever  see  a  finer  leader  ?  Captain  Vonner,  I  sa 
lute  you !  God  bless  you ! 

"And,  oh,  what  an  answer  to  calumny! 
-Friends,  he  comes  from  the  veriest  hotbed  of 
treason  in  Maryland.  Up  there,  in  the  hills, 
a  cordon  of  guards  surrounds  him;  the  pro 
vost  guard  is  on  the  watch  night  and  day. 
He,  himself,  has  been  named  to  me  as  a  suspect. 
His  family  have  been.  Thank  God,  I  knew  it 
185 


WAR 

for  a  lie.    Now  he  stands  here,  by  my  side,  to 
prove  his  Unionism  with  his  life!" 

Then  he  turns  to  Jon : 

"If  you  and  I  must  go  alone,  down  there,  to 
that  sad  man  at  Washington,  representing  our 
town,  I  am  not  ashamed.  My  great  end  is 
achieved.  Give  me  your  hand — both  of  them. 
And,  I  swear  to  you,  that  if  no  one  else  volun 
teers  to-night,  you  and  I  will  go  alone !  But  I 
don't  think  we  shall.  I  see,  crowding  up  here, 
other  young  men  like  you — the  hope  and  glory 
of  our  land.  Come,  come,  come!  Now  they 
halt !  They  are  at  the  Rubicon !  A  word  will 
carry  them  over!  Say  a  word  to  them — Cap 
tain  Vonner — just  a  word!" 

Well,  by  that  time  the  red-headed  son  of  a 
gun  had  got  me  and  all  the  rest  crazy!  Yes, 
there  was  a  bunch  of  fine  young  men  all  crowd 
ed  together,  and  just  waiting,  right  out  in 
front,  for  another  encouraging  word ! 

"Captain  Vonner,  say  a  word !"  yells  Kratz, 
the  craziest  of  all. 

1 86 


WHAT   JONATHAN    FOUND 

"Not  captain,"  says  Jon,  determined. 
"That's  why  I  didn't  answer  sooner." 

"Captain  Vonner,"  repeats  the  editor,  "say 
a  word — just  a  word !  There  are  many  of  your 
young  friends  here.  God  help  us,  I  should  go 
to  Washington  mad  with  joy,  in  a  company  of 
swch  splendid  young  spirits.  Could  we  do  that, 
we  should,  indeed,  have  more  than  redeemed 
ourselves !  Just  a  word,  Captain  Vonner !" 

I  know  that  the  last  thing  on  earth  he  could 
ask  of  Jon  was  a  speech.  He'd  never  made 
one  in  his  life.  He  couldn't.  But  that  just 
shows  how  little  a  father  sometimes  knows 
about  his  sons!  Jon  stepped  upon  the  box, 
calm  as  calm  and  says: 

"Friends,  most  of  what  you  have  heard  is 
true.  I,  too,  think  now  of  that  dark  sad  man 
,at  Washington,  bearing  the  burdens  of  us  all. 
I  am  going  to  help  him.  He  is  right.  If  any 
of  you  who  know  me  can  be  influenced  by  me, 
I  say,  come  with  me !" 

Such  a  little  thing!  But  so  powerful!  I 
187 


WAR 

didn't  know  my  dear  old  Jonathan  standing  up 
there,  tall,  strong,  white,  half  smiling,  as  if, 
at  last,  he  had  found  a  way  through  darkness. 
The  multitude  moved  upon  itself.  I  saw  three 
boys  I  knew  coming  through  the  crowd.  No 
fuss,  just  in  earnest — just  like  Jonathan.  But 
I  was  deathly  afraid  they'd  get  there  before  I 
could.  So  I  yells  out : 

"Me  next!" 

The  crowd  parted  and  the  editor  grabbed  me 
by  the  hands  and  dragged  me  to  the  box.  He 
was  crying  more  than  ever. 

"Oh,  men  of  the  Union !"  he  sobs  out.  "This 
is  glorious!  Another  of  the  suspected  family 
standing  before  you,  proving  his  loyalty  with 
his  life!  Oh,  it  swells  my  heart  almost  to 
bursting!  I  have  heard  him  called  a  Knight — 
sympathizer — Copperhead.  I  have  heard  his 
house  called  the  headquarters  for  the  South — 
whence  information  and  material  go  to  the 
Confederates.  Why,  friends,  maybe,  if  we 
only  knew  it,  all  this  while,  all  about  us,  men 
like  these  have  been  under  suspicion,  yet  only 
1 88 


WHAT   JONATHAN   FOUND 

waiting,  yearning,  to  fight  for  the  dear  old  flag ! 
Lieutenant  Vonner,  with  an  overflowing  heart, 
apologizing  for  my  neighbors'  doubts,  I  salute 
you!" 

"Not  lieutenant,"  I  says.  "I  ain't  fit.  If  I 
can't  fight  in  the  ranks  I  won't  go — ' 
f,  But  no  one  heard  me.  By  that  time  they 
were  crowding  in  to  sign,  and  the  band  struck 
up  The  Star  Spangled  Banner  and  played  till 
the  shingles  came  off  the  houses,  they  say. 

Jon  sneaked  up  to  me  and  says: 

"Daddy,  I'm  surprised  at  you.  Who'll  take 
care  of  Evelyn  and  Dave?  You  shouldn't  have 
done  it.  Please  withdraw.  There  is  time.  One 
of  us  is  enough — under  our  circumstances." 

"Jonthy,"  says  I,  "I  don't  know  what  with 
draw  means — "  just  in  fun;  I  did  know,  of 
course — "and  it  was  your  fault.  I  wouldn't 
have  done  it  for  his  speech.  But  yours — " 

"I  have  a  special  purpose  in  going,  daddy." 

"No?"  says  I.     "Patriotism?" 

Well,  anyhow,  about  that  time,  the  editor 
came  up  and  put  his  arms  about  us  both. 
189 


WAR 

"I  hear  something  about  withdrawing.  You 
can  do  that,  Mr.  Vonner,  without  a  bit  of 
shame.  With  your  son  we  feel  that  you  have 
given  enough.  Thank  God  your  enlistment  has 
proved  your  loyalty.  And  I'll  get  my  hundred 
now." 

I  just  stood  up  and  folded  my  arms : 

"I  am  of  age,  twice,"  I  says.  "I  do  not  with 
draw.  I  go  with  my  noble  son — "  just  for  fun. 
"And  not  to  prove  my  loyalty." 

The  band  played  like  mad,  the  boys  started 
signing,  and  we  started  home. 

"Well,  you  see  how  it  went,  Jonthy,"  says  I. 
"You  got  me  crazy,  too.  We'd  have  better 
stayed  at  home." 

Jon  shakes  his  head  no. 

"Daddy,"  says  he,  more  to  himself  than  to 
me,  "the  reason  was  that  I  had  to  find  some 
thing  to  take  her  place  here" — his  heart — "I 
had  to  have  something !  There  was  such  a  void 
there !  And  it  aches — daddy,  it  aches !  Strange, 
though,  that  war  should  fill  the  place  of  love !" 
190 


WHAT   JONATHAN    FOUND 

"Well,"  says  I,  "that's  what  she  does — mixes 
up  war  and  love  like  thunder — does  Evelyn." 

"Yes,  I  couldn't  understand  that  before.  I 
do  now.  But  why  should  you  go?" 

"I  got  an  aching  void  myself,"  says  I,  "and 
I  know  where  it  come  from." 

'iThat  is  strange,"  says  Jon. 

"I  suppose  war's  good  for  all  aching  voids," 
says  I;  "not?" 

"Maybe,"  nods  Jon,  and  said  no  more  about 
my  withdrawing.  That  aching  void  business 
settled  him.  He  understood  that  I  meant  we 
weren't  getting  enough  to  eat — just  in  fun — 
of  course.  At  least  I  hope  so — and  not  that  I 
was  in  love  with  some  one  warlike. 


XX 

MORE  MYSTERY 

ON  the  way  home  we  meets  the  same  two 
soldiers.    They  surrounded  us,  savage. 

"You  didn't  enlist!"  challenges  the  one. 
"You  lied  to  us.  You  lied  all  around." 

"On  the  contrary,"  smiles  Jon,  "we  done  bet 
ter  than  we  promised." 

"How  do  you  make  that  out  ?"  says  the  sav 
age  one. 

"We  both  enlisted  instead  of  only  one." 

"You've  got  to  prove  it !"  says  the  other  one. 
"We  won't  believe  you  again.'' 

"You'll  find  our  names  at  the  top  of  the  list, 
you  idiot,"  says  I,  "if  you  go  to  town  and  look. 
Prove  it  to  yourselves — or  go  to  the  devil !" 

"Yes,  yes,"   said  Jon,   ready  with  the   oil. 
"They  know  what  to  do,  daddy."    To  them  he 
says:   "What  my  father  said  is  true.    But  we 
are  in  your  hands.    What  are  your  orders?" 
192 


MORE   MYSTERY 

"Back  to  town,"  says  they. 

On  the  way  one  of  them  says: 

"Why  did  you  tell  us  your  brother  was  at 
home  ?" 

I  was  going  to  speak,  and  tell  'em  they  was 
out  under  the  trees  where  they  couldn't  be 
foufid  easy,  but  Jon  stops  me. 

"Were  you  there?"  he  asks. 

They  don't  answer. 

"He's  gone  away,  hasn't  he?"  they  asks  in 
stead. 

"My  question  to  you  remains  unanswered," 
says  Jon,  as  fighty  now  as  me.  "I'll  ask  you 
another.  What  do  you  want  with  my  brother 
Dave?" 

"You're  talking  to  a  Union  soldier!"  says 
one  of  'em. 

^You're  talking  to  a  Union  officer!"  says 
Jon,  more  savage  than  I  ever  heard  him  speak. 
"And,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  if  you  lay 
a  hand  on  my  brother  you  and  this  Union 
officer  will  have  it  out  together.  Let  me  look 
at  you!" 


WAR 

Before  he  can  even  think  Jon  has  him  by  the 
throat  and  his  gun  in  his  hand,  and  jerks  up 
his  face  so  that  I  thought  his  head  would  fly 
off. 

With  some  help  from  Jon  I  managed  to  get 
the  other  one. 

"I'll  know  you  hereafter!"  says  Jon.  "Now 
march — out  in  front.  We're  going  where  you 
meant  to  take  us.  But  it's  not  right  for  two 
officers  to  follow  two  privates.  March !" 

Well,  I  tell  you,  I'd  have  marched  as 
straight  as  they  did  if  Jon'd  been  about  a 
foot  behind  me  with  a  bayonet ! 

We  marches  'em  right  back  to  Kratz. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  had  the  authority,"  says 
Kratz  to  them;  "I'd  shoot  you  right  here.  It's 
men  like  you  who  are  making  the  most  trouble 
on  the  border — just  as  you  have  made  it  for 
these  men.  I  don't  know  whether  or  not  these 
two  Union  officers  have  the  right  to  arrest  you 
while  on  duty.  I  suppose  not.  They're  not 
mustered  in  yet.  I  wish  they  had.  I'd  keep 
you  tight  enough,  with  my  hundred  boys." 
194 


MORE   MYSTERY 

"We  want  to  know,"  says  they,  "no  matter 
who  you  or  they  are,  whether  they  have  en 
listed." 

"Yes,  you  fools,"  says  Kratz,  "and  both  are 
officers!  You'll  get  your  court-martial  for 
this  if  I  can  accomplish  it!" 

They  seem  sort  of  flabbergasted  when  Kratz 
shows  them  our  names  on  the  paper — with  cap 
tain  after  Jon's  and  lieutenant  after  mine. 

"Now,"  says  Kratz,  "you'd  better  stop  both 
ering  these  people !  They  command  a  hundred 
men.  You  are  only  two." 

"Yes,  these,"  nods  the  soldier.  "I  suppose 
they're  all  right." 

"And  if  they  hadn't  started  it  no  one  else 
would  have  come  in.  You've  got  to  thank  this 
young  man  for  a  hundred  Union  recruits  out 
of  this  secessionist  hole." 

Then  he  puts  his  arms  on  both  of  our  shoul 
ders,  and  says : 

"Gentlemen,  under  the  circumstances,  I  feel 
that  I  ought  to  let  you  both  withdraw.  Only, 
in  that  case,  I  fear,  we  lose  the  whole  company. 
195 


WAR 

I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  have  any  vener 
ation  for  your  country  after  this.  It's  discour 
aging,  disheartening.  Shall  we  drop  the  com 
pany  ?" 

He  gets  the  company  roll  to  cross  our  names 
off  if  we  like  when  Jon  stops  him — still  very 
polite. 

"No,"  he  said,  "these  men  are  only  doing 
their  duty — foolishly  though  they  do  it.  They 
have  their  orders — just  as  you  and  I  will  have, 
presently.  Keep  our  names  where  we  put 
them.  Keep  the  company." 

Well,  the  crowd  that  had  gathered  is  floored 
by  that. 

"My  God !"  weeps  the  editor.  "Such  patriot 
ism!" 

The  two  soldiers  seems  ashamed,  and  one  of 
them  says : 

"Gentlemen,  you  may  go  to  your  homes." 

The  other  one  says : 

"If  you  need  to  pass  our  lines  again,  the 
countersign  is  Washington.  There  is  our  con 
fidence  in  you  both !" 

196 


MORE    MYSTERY 

Jon  was  silent  for  a  long  time  afterward. 

Finally  I  says : 

"Well,  Jonthy?" 

"Daddy,  I  got  to  confess,  at  last,  that  I 
don't  understand  it." 

"Some  one  has  given  us  a  mighty  bad  name 
witft  the  Unions — Ben  Cricler,  I  suppose.  Well, 
before  I  go  I'll  take  a  licking  out  of  his  hide." 

But  Jon  shakes  his  head. 

"I  hardly  think  that  would  help  us.  We  have 
done  the  one  thing  that  will.  No  one  can  ques 
tion,  further,  the  Unionism  of  men  who  enlist. 
Anyhow,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  trouble  is 
deeper  than  Crider.  However,  there  is  no  use 
in  worrying  Evelyn  and  Dave  about  it." 

"Don't  you  think  they  smell  a  rat?"  asks  I. 

"No,"  smiles  nice  old  Jon,  "not  even  a 
mouse!" 


XXI 

THE  FRENZY  OF  EVELYN 

EVELYN  got  as  white  as  the  wall  when 
she  heard  it,  and  choked  up  and  couldn't 
speak  for  a  while.  But,  when  speech  came  it 
made  up  for  halting.  She  looks  Jon  straight 
in  the  eye,  with  the  horrors  in  her  face  and 
voice,  and  says: 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  enlisted  under 
Lincoln?" 

Jon  looks  just  as  straight  back  at  her. 

"Yes,"  says  he,  soft  and  smiling. 

"And  you're  proud — glad?" 

"Yes,"  again  from  Jon.    "Why  not?" 

"Why  not?  You  bring  down  upon  us  de 
struction — destruction — destruction!  Oh,  the 
ruin,  the  ruin  you  have  wrought  this  night !" 

"Dear  sister,"  says  Jon,  soft  and  fine.  "I 
198 


THE    FRENZY    OF    EVELYN 

hate  to  tell  you,  but  we  are  under  grievous 
suspicion.  All  about  us,  there  is  a  cordon  of 
Union  soldiers.  There  is  a  spy  named  Mallory 
near  us.  He  has  somehow  made  the  Federal 
authorities  believe  that  one  of  us  is  Mallory. 
Don't  you  see  how  dangerous  that  is  for  all  of 
us  f  And  that  the  only  way  to  divert  suspicion 
is  for  some  of  us  to  enlist  in  the  Union  army?" 

"And,  do  you  think,"  shrieks  Evelyn,  "that 
that  will  make  the  Federal  government  believe 
that  it  has  got  rid  of  a  Confederate  spy?" 

"No,"  says  Jon.  "It  will  find  the  spy  in 
good  time  and  shoot  him.  But  it  will  con 
vince  the  government  that  he  is  not  here,  not 
one  of  us;  the  horrible  suspicions  and  surveil 
lance  of  us  will  cease — and  be  carried  on  else 
where." 
'  She  gets  wilder  and  wilder. 

"Isn't  Dave  here  to  shoulder  the  suspicion 
still?  And  if  they  think  the  spy  is  one  of  you 
three,  don't  you  see  that  you  have  fastened  it 
down  on  him  alone?  Dave,  Dave!  Before,  it 
might  have  been  any  of  you  three.  It  was  tm- 
199 


.WAR 

certain,  and  that  kept  you-all  safe,  but  with  you 
two  in  the  Union  army  it  can  only  be  Dave.'* 

At  first  Jon  seems  scared  by  that.  But  then 
he  smiles  and  says : 

"Kushy — kushy!  Why,  Dave  knows  no 
more  about  war  and  spying  than  a  baby.  He 
hasn't  been  here.  How  could  he  be  suspected  ? 
And  every  one  is  aware  of  that.  There's  only 
one  thing  he  knows  since  he  came  home." 

"What's  that?"  asks  Evelyn,  sharp  and 
quick. 

"To  love  you,"  says  nice  old  Jon.  "And 
don't  you  think  that  every  one  who  sees  or 
knows  him  sees  and  knows  that  too?  A  spy 
can  not  be  in  love  or  thinking  of  marriage." 

But  all  the  answer  he  gets  to  that  is  shriek 
ing,  that  we  have  killed  her,  killed  Dave,  killed 
'most  everybody  and  thing  on  earth. 

"Then,"  says  Jon,  soft  and  nice,  "what  do 
you  think  ought  to  be  done  to  avert  suspicion, 
if  daddy  and  I  have  made  a  mistake?" 

"Can't  you  see?"  shrieks  Evelyn.    "Mallory 
must    enlist — Mallory,    Mallory,    Mallory — in 
200 


THE  FRENZY  OF  EVELYN 

the  rebel  army  now  to  shield  Dave.  Mallory 
himself  must  be  got  rid  of.  And  he  must  be 
known  to  have  gone  away.  That  is  the  only 
way  now.  The  only  way!  That's  how  this 
night's  work  has  turned  the  matter!" 

"But,"  says  Jon,  "we  don't  know  him — 
wfeere  to  find  him — who  he  is.  He  doesn't 
exist,  as  far  as  we  know.  Yet,  they  know  he 
does.  If  he  could  be  found — I'd  kill  him! 
And  send  them  his  body.  He  wouldn't  have 
to  enlist." 

"He  deserves  that,"  says  I,  "a  man  that  is  too 
cowardly  to  shoulder  his  own  deeds,  but  puts 
'em  on  some  one  else!  I  wish,  too,  that  I'd 
come  across  him  with  a  gun  in  my  hands !" 

"Dear  daddy,"  says  Evelyn,  more  quiet  now, 
and  slow  and  solemn,  "the  time  is  at  hand — •• 
you  have  brought  it  to-night — for  you  and 
your  gun— and  Mallory!  Yes,  you  must  kill 
him — that  is  the  better  way — better  than  en 
listing  in  the  rebel  army.  Death  to  Mallory!" 

And  she  actually  laughs. 

"Daddy  says,"  put  in  Jon,  puzzled  to  death, 
201 


WAR 

"that  you  are  Union  now.  If  you're  Union 
why  do  you  bother?" 

"Do  you  suppose  those  little  things  could 
make  me  like  this?"  says  Evelyn.  "Union — 
rebel !  What  are  they  now  ?  My  God !" 

"They  use'  to  be  a  lot,"  kind  of  smiles  Jon, 
and  in  a  nice  soft  voice.  "And,  if  it's  so  that 
you  are  still  rebel — " 

She  flings  up  her  hands  and  just  goes  on. 

"It's  Dave— Dave— Dave !" 

Jon  thinks  she's  gone  crazy,  and  tries  to 
quiet  her,  and  Dave  comes  in  singing: 

"  'Dear  Evelina, 
Sweet  Evelina 
My  love  for  you  can  never,  never  die — ' ' 

This  seemed  to  make  her  wilder  yet. 

She  starts  to  run  away. 

"Jonthy,"  says  I,  "do  you  mind  what  she 
said  we  should  do  when  the  devil  got  her?" 

Jon  nods,  kind  of  smiling. 

"Well,  here  goes,"  says  I,  "Jonthy,  follow 
her  instructions.    Come  on !" 
202 


THE  FRENZY  OF  EVELYN 

I  drags  both  Jon  and  Dave  up  and  forced 
their  arms  around  her,  and  my  own,  yelling: 

"Now  hard — the  harder  the  better !" 

But  that  was  different.  She  beat  us  in  our 
faces  till  we  were  black  and  blue — and  my  nose 
was  bleeding.  Only — when  she  had  struck 
Da>ve  once  he  let  go  and  turned  his  back.  At 
last  Jon  and  I  let  go,  too,  and  she  stood  there 
among  us,  like  a  young  devil.  I  was  ready  to 
run,  and  Jon  was  discouraged  at  the  result  of 
the  embracing  business.  But  Dave  just  turns 
and  looks  at  her.  She  starts  to  say  something 
not  so  wild  and  Dave  thunders : 

"Silence!" 

And,  after  a  moment: 

"Apologize  to  daddy  and  Jon !" 

But  nothing  happened.  She  couldn't,  she 
\yas  too  choked. 

Then  Dave  turned  to  us  and  said : 

"Father — brother,  since  Evelyn  will  not 
apologize  for  herself,  I  do  so  for  her.  I  am 
ashamed  of  her.  I  did  not  know  she  could  be 
such  a  devil." 

203 


WAR 

He  looks  at  her  like  a  judge,  sentencing  a 
man  to  be  hanged. 

"But  she  must  and  shall  be  punished  for  this 
sort  of  thing.  Her  punishment  is — " 

Dave  turned  to  her  then. 

—to  be  told,  for  the  first  time,  that  I  am  a 
Union  man.  And  that  nothing  has  helped  so 
much  to  make  me  one  as  this  madness  of  hers." 

"Ah,  what  do  I  care  about  that!"  says  Eve 
lyn. 

"If  you  care  about  me  you'll  care  about  that 
— and  not  be  entirely  blinded  by  your  own 
prejudices,"  says  Dave. 

"You,  too !  You,  too !  Why,  that's  all  gone !" 

"I  have  asked  you,"  says  Dave,  in  a  way  new 
and  terrible,  "to  apologize  to  Jon  and  daddy. 
Be  as  much  of  a  rebel  as  you  like — but  a  lady. 
There's  nothing  else  to  be  discussed  till  that 
has  been  done." 

"But,  Dave,  my  own  dear  Dave,  you  must 
see!  Don't  you-all  see?  I'm  not  rebel — I'm 
not  Union — I'm  only  Love!" 

I  was  surprised  at  Dave.  He  was  as  hard  as 
a  stone  to  her.  Like  a  judge  on  the  bench. 


THE  FRENZY  OF  EVELYN 

"It's  all  my  own  fault,"  I  says.  "I  said  she 
had  turned  Union.  I  thought  she  told  me  so.  I 
guess  she  didn't.  Anyhow,  she's  not  Union — 
that's  plain.  We  mustn't  pester  her." 

"God  above  us,  you  don't  understand — you 
don't  understand — I  am  neither — nothing — • 
*now — God — " 

She  was  scared  and  pleading  now.  It  was 
Dave  who  was,  really,  unreasonable. 

"Silence!"  said  Dave  once  more. 

And  there  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then 
Dave,  by  force,  takes  her  hands.  Honestly,  I 
don't  think  she  ever  loved  him  more  than  at 
that  moment  when  he  was  almost  beating  her. 
You  could  see  it.  Like  some  poor  caged  pes 
tered  animal. 

"Yes,"  says  Evelyn,  more  sorry  than  I  ever 
,  saw  or  heard  her,  "it's  over.  I'll  keep  quiet. 
I'll  be  glad  to.  There's  nothing  to  be  done.  It 
can't  be  mended.  You  don't  understand.  You 
can't,  won't.  I  can't  make  you.  I  mustn't. 
Yes — I'll  keep  quiet.  It  must  be  acts  now,  not 
words.  And  quickly — quickly!" 

"Yes,"  says  Dave,  "there's  something  wrong 
20; 


WAR 

here,  and  we've  got  to  find  out  what  it  is — and 
who — and  quickly.    While  you  were  away — " 

He  turns  to  Jon  and  me. 

" — two  Union  soldiers  came  to  the  door. 
They  knew  that  you  two  were  away.  Now, 
who  were  they  hunting?" 

"You,"  says  I  before  I  could  think. 

"Dave,"  shrieks  Evelyn.  "Now  do  you 
see !  That  is  what  you've  done !" 

Jon  turns  away  and  says  nothing. 

"Then  they  meant  to  take  me  with  them — if 
they  had  found  me?"  says  Dave. 

"It  must  be,"  says  Jon,  then,  the  only  one 
who  was  quiet,  "that  you  look  like  the  spy, 
Mallory." 

"That's  what  I  have  thought,  heretofore," 
says  Dave.  "But  there  must  be  something 
more.  They  know,  by  this  time,  that  we  are 
loyal." 

"All  but  you !"  says  Evelyn. 

"If  they  tackle  you  again,  Dave,"  says  I, 
"give  'em  the  countersign  —  'Washington'. 
That'll  settle  'em." 

206 


THE  FRENZY  OF  EVELYN 

It  was  not  Dave  but  Evelyn  who  asked  what 
it  was. 

"Washington,"  says  I.  "We'd  better  all 
keep  it  in  mind." 

Dave  takes  no  notice  of  it.  He's  looking  at 
Evelyn.  Jon  kicks  me  on  the  shin — I  don't 
^now  what  for  to  this  day.  But  I  hears  Eve 
lyn  repeat,  under  her  breath : 

"Washington!  Thank  God!  If  you  don't 
understand,  you  help — in  your  ignorance." 

Dave  turns  on  her  savage. 

"I  love  you,"  says  he.  "What  has  happened 
here  makes  no  difference  in  that.  But,  you 
must  be  at  least  courteous  to  Jon  and  daddy — 
even  when  in  this  devil's  mood.  I  will  make 
you  be — even  if  I  have  to  beat  you." 

"What?"  she  asks,  as  if  it  wasn't  possible 
that  it  was  from  Dave.  "Did  you  say  that  you 
would  beat  me — me — you,  Dave?" 

And  she  inches  up  and  touches  him,  mighty 
pitiful. 

Dave  pays  no  attention  to  the  touch,  but 
says,  hard  as  iron : 

207 


WAR 

"Yes!    That  is  what  I  said." 

"None  of  us  are  like  ourselves  any  more," 
says  Evelyn,  "but  none  are  so  far  from  it  as 
you,  my  dear,  dear  David.  Think  what  you 
have  said  to  me!  Is  it  the  war  has  set  us  all 
at  each  other's  throats?  Let  us  come  back  to 
each  other!  After  all,  what  does  all  the  rest 
matter  if  we  have  each  other?  Without  you- 
all  I  have  nobody — nothing.  I  am  sorry  for 
my  part  in  it.  Come!  Let's  put  our  arms 
around  each  other  and  make  up !" 

She  holds  out  her  arms  and  passes  her  eyes 
from  one  to  the  other,  but  some  devil  she  had 
roused  was  in  us  all  and  held  us,  and  none  of 
us  answered — not  even  Jon.  She  gets  very 
pale  and  staggers  a  little,  then  drops  her  head 
on  her  breast  and  turns  to  go  away. 

"Wait !"  commands  Dave.  "There  are  some 
questions  you  must  answer.  Wait !" 

"Please  let  me  go  and  kill  myself!"  she  begs. 
But,  then,  she  shudders  and  comes  back  to 
Dave  as  if  she  had  thought  of  something  terri 
ble. 

208 


THE  FRENZY  OF  EVELYN 

"No,  no !  No,  I  must  live.  That  is  the  only 
way!  Don't  be  afraid.  I  won't  kill  myself.  I 
daren't."  So,  she  stands  trembling  and  sorry, 
like  a  whipped  child,  among  us  three  brutes 
waiting  for  more  whipping.  If  there  is  one 
moment  in  my  life  of  which  I  am  more 
ashamed  than  another,  that's  the  one. 

Dave  spoke  at  last,  but  it  was  still  like  a 
young  brute. 

"I  don't  know  who  is  the  cause  of  this.  But 
it  is  certain  that  you,  Evelyn,  through  your  pas 
sions,  have  your  share  in  it.  Therefore,  you 
have  got  to  do  your  share  of  the  suffering." 

"Yes,"  whispers  Evelyn,  "I  shall  do  my  full 

share  of  the  suffering.    I  am  willing.    Ready. 

And  my  share  is  laid  out !    I  know  it  now !  May 

I    go — daddy — Jon — Dave,    and    begin    it?    I 

.can't  stand  much  more !" 

But  Dave  says,  more  quiet  now : 

"No.    This  is  the  wrong  time  to  let  you  go, 

Evelyn,  or  you  us.    It's  my  opinion  that  we've 

got  to  hang  together  or  we'll  hang  separately 

—as  Benjamin  Franklin  said."     He  was  all 

209 


WAR 

changed  in  a  minute,  and  just  held  her  and 
looked  in  her  face  without  a  word,  till  her  head 
drooped,  and  her  shoulders  shook,  and  she 
cried  like  a  baby. 

"Now,  we're  all  right,"  smiles  Dave,  "be 
cause  we're  all  wrong  and  sorry  for  it,"  and 
puts  his  arm  about  her  and  leads  her  out  under 
the  plums. 

And,  presently,  we  could  hear  them — talk 
ing.  Once  in  a  while  something  came  through  : 

"Yes,  oh,  my  dear  Dave,  once  I  used  to  be 
crazy  about  the  South.  I  love  it  still,  of  course 
— just  as  you  love  your  own  country.  Till  you 
came.  Then  there  was  nothing  but  you.  To 
night,  Dave,  it  wasn't  that — my  Southern  sym 
pathies.  That's  all  gone.  It  was  you — in 
awful  peril — that  was  it." 

"Of  what?"  asks  Dave. 

"I  can't  tell  you— I  can't  tell  you !" 

"Because  you  don't  know,"  laughs  Dave. 
"Same  way  with  me.  I  can't  tell  what  I  don't 
know.  None  of  us  know.  Maybe  it's  nothing." 

"No,  Dave,  we're  ruined — me — you — daddy 
—Jon!" 


THE  FRENZY  OF  EVELYN 

"Well,  I  love  this  kind  of  ruins." 

I  suppose  he  kissed  her  then. 

"Dave — just  one  thing — more — " 

"More  than  one,  more — 

"Is  everything  forgiven  and  apologized?" 

"Sh!"  laughs  Dave.     "I'm  ashamed." 
f,   "Do  you  think  you  will  ever — ever  talk  to 
me — about  me — no  matter  how  bad  I  may  be 
—like  that,  again,  Dave?" 

"I'm  going  to  get  insured  against  it,"  laughs 
Dave. 

"Dave,"  says  Evelyn,  "do  you  know  I  came 
near  dying?" 

"No,"  says  Dave. 

"Yes,  my  heart  stopped — quite  stopped.  Ev 
erything  had  passed  away.  And,  Dave,  my 
dear  Dave,  do  you  know  that  I'm  afraid  that 
if  you  are  that  cross  to  me  again — I  shall  die ! 
Yes,  right  before  you.  For  I,  really,  can't 
live  without  you.  Honest,  when  I  felt,  this 
evening,  that  you  were  going  away  from  me, 
everything  went  out  of  me  with  you — even  my 
life.  You  came  back  to  me  just  in  time  to  save 
my  life.  So,  if  you  don't  want  me  to  die  right 

211 


WAR 

before  you — please  don't  be  so  cross  any 
more !" 

Then,  after  a  long  while:  "And  I  daren't 
die,  Dave,  I  daren't!  I  must  live!" 

"Not  on  your  life!"  laughs  Dave.  "I  hate 
funerals." 

What  do  you  think  of  that!  Only  fifteen 
minutes  between  hell  and  Heaven !  And  Dave 
traveling  the  way  faster  than  Evelyn !  Sure 
the  war  had  got  us  all  wrong  somehow — the 
rest  of  us  worse  than  Evelyn  now ! 


XXII 

/. 

THE  WEDDING  MARCH  -  TO  THE  PUMP  TROUGH 


,"  says  I,  afterward,  "you  cer- 
tainly  fixed  that  up  grand  —  after  un 
fixing  it  grand.  You  deserve  a  horse-trainer's 
prize  at  the  next  county  fair  —  and  a  spanking." 

Dave  laughs  like  he'd  burst  open. 

"Wasn't  I  red  war  and  rumors  of  war  —  that 
day  ?  I  wonder  what  was  the  matter  with  me  ? 
I  was  fighting  on  both  sides,  wasn't  I?" 

"You  was,  Davy,"  says  I,  "and  in  the  mid 
dle.  And  you  done  it  fine.  But  what  did  she 
say  afterward  ?" 

"Well,  let  me  see,"  says  Dave,  laughing. 
"She  said  she  was  ruined  and  we  were  all 
ruined,  but  that,  maybe,  if  her  strength  and 
courage  held  out.  she'd  be  able  to  rescue  us 
all,  yet  —  by  sacrificing  herself  —  " 

"What  was  the  ruin  ?" 
213 


WAR 

"Lord,  I  don't  know." 

"Didn't  she  tell  you?" 

"N-no,"  says  Dave,  "I  don't  think  she  could. 
No  one  can.  Something's  got  to  happen  to 
let  us  know.  Maybe  it's  because  she's  a  rebel. 
She  thinks  that  she's  the  whole  thing,  and 
soon  she'll  have  us  licked  and  begging  for 
our  lives.  She's  going  to  try  to  save  ours  for 
us,  so's  we  can  beg." 

"You  think  that's  it  ?"  asks  I.    Dave  nods. 

"Well,  what's  the  harm  in  letting  her  think 
so  hereafter,  if  she's  happy  with  it?  It's  better 
than  a  fight  with  her.  As  soon  as  it  wears  off 
and  she  finds  herself  the  only  one  still  fighting, 
she'll  get  lonely  and  stop.  I  don't  care  whether 
she's  a  rebel  or  not,  if  she  just  stays  Evelyn. 
I  guess  we  all  feel  mighty  mean  about  the  other 
night.  Why  are  you  recalling  it?" 

"What  else  did  she  say,  Davy?"  asks  I. 

"What  else?  Um — she  said  she  loved  me, 
daddy." 

"Uhu !    And  what  did  you  say,  Davy  ?" 

"I  said  that  I  loved  her." 
214 


THE   WEDDING    MARCH 

"I  expect  that  was  the  end  of  the  conversa 
tion.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  was 
there?" 

"Oh,  yes.  That  was  only  the  beginning. 
She  said  that  she  loved  me  the  most." 

"And  you  said — " 

"That  I  loved  her  the  most." 

"Well,  that  must  have  been  the  end,  not  ?" 

"Not  at  all,  daddy.  We  talked  two  hours 
longer.  She  said  I  didn't." 

"Ah,  and  you  had  no  answer  to  that,  so?" 

"Certainly.    I  said  I  did." 

"Well— was  that  all?" 

"No.    She  said  she'd  prove  it." 

"Then  she  had  all  your  checkers,  hadn't 
she?" 

"No.    I  said  she  couldn't." 

"Goshens !    Then  you  had  'em !" 

"Not  yet.  She  said  I  should  remember  that 
— only  a  little  while!" 

"And  you  says  you  will?" 

"Yes,  daddy." 

"And  what  then?" 

215 


WAR 

"She  cries  like  a  baby." 

"Anything  more?" 

"I  kisses  her." 

"And—?" 

"Intermission — arms  all  around." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  then  I  says  that  I'm  sorry  about  the 
other  night,  and  that  you  were  a  brute." 

"Proceed." 

"She  said  she  was  sorry.    That  she  thought 
she  was  killed.    But  not  just  yet." 

"And,  so—" 

"I  says  I'm  more  sorry." 

"And  yet—" 

"She  says  that  she's  more  sorry  and  she  can 
prove  it." 

"So?" 

"I  says  she  can't" 

"Then  she  had  you." 

"She  says,  again,  she  can,  and  to  remember 
it.    Think  of  her  when  it  happens." 

"And  you  will,  not?" 
216 


THE    WEDDING    MARCH 

"No.  I  said  I  was  going  to  forget  it  and  she 
should.  That  I'd  never  make  her  sorry  again. 
I  really  don't  know  what  came  over  me  that 
night — unless  I  was,  at  last,  fighting  mad  at 
that  skunk,  Mallory,  and  taking  it  out  on  her." 

"And  she  says  so,  too  ?" 

"She  says  if  she  only  could  forget  it!  But 
that  she  had  to  remember  it.  Our  salvation 
was  in  it." 

"And,  of  course — ' 

"She  cries,  again,  like  a  baby." 

"So?    And  what?" 

He  hooks  his  arm  in  mine  and  drags  me  to 
the  horse  trough,  whistling  the  wedding  march ! 

"If  we  can  just  jolly  her  a  little  longer  the 
war  will  be  over  and  she'll  be  licked  and  have 
to  stop  fighting.  Of  course,  she'll  never  give 
up  till  after — and  then- 
He  whistles  some  more  of  the  wedding 
march  and  leads  me  back. 

"You  know  the  law  is  that  a  husband  may 
castigate  his  wife  with  a  stick — provided  it  is 
217 


WAR 

no  thicker  than  his  thumb.  See !  My  thumb's 
about  an  inch  thick.  Thanks  to  you,  daddy. 
Understand  ?" 

"You'd  never  do  it,  David,"  says  I.  "You'll 
never  be  like  that  day  again.  You'd  better 
enlist  in  the  Union  army,  too — for  protection. 
You  were  too  young  when  you  came  home. 
But  you  could  get  in  now.  You're  much  older- 
looking  since  you  fell  in  love." 

"Not  on  your  wafer,"  says  Dave.  "They 
don't  take  any  one  in  love.  It's  a  fundamental 
disability.  You  and  Jon  can  have  all  the  war 
you  want.  They'll  take  you.  You're  not 
in  love.  I've  got  something  better  on  hand. 
And  there  it  is!"  he  says,  as  Evelyn  comes  up 
the  yard.  "She  is  the  captain,  the  general,  the 
commander-in-chief !  'N  a  rum  turn  tummy! 
'N  a  rum  turn  turn !" 

He  runs  off  to  meet  her,  singing : 

"Wie  komme'  die  Soldat*  in  den  Himmel  f 
Wie  komme'  die  Soldat'  in  den  Himmelf 
Auf  a  grosse'  weisse'  Shimmel 
Komme'  die  Soldat'  in  den  Himmel!" 

218 


THE   WEDDING   MARCH 

He  dragged  her  clean  up  to  where  I  was, 
and,  bowing,  with  their  hands  together,  they 
sung  at  me : 

"Ja,  in  mei'  Vater's  Garten 
Da  wachst  'n  schones  Blumelcin — " 

"And,  here's  the  flower,  daddy,"  says  Dave. 

Then  he  drags  her  away  again,  and  in  a  min 
ute  I  saw  them  on  the  horses  riding  and  yelling 
after  each  other  up  the  Red  Rock  Road. 

Such  foolishness! 

Yet — do  you  blame  me  for  not  thinking  of 
any  trouble  when  Dave  and  Evelyn  was  like 
that?  What  did  all  that  of  the  other  day  mean 
after  this?  Nothing! 


XXIII 

LUCAS    MALLORY AT    LAST 

LBOUT  two  weeks  later,  one  day,  Evelyn 
had  been  in  town  and  came  home  late 
wearing  a  veil  all  bound  round  her  head.  This 
was  unusual  with  her,  and  besides,  it  was 
warm. 

"I  look  so  dreadfully  when  I  am  tired, 
daddy,  that's  the  reason,"  she  said  to  me  when 
I  asked  her.  "And  might  I  have  a  little  supper 
in  my  room?" 

"Of  course,"  says  I. 

"Then  I  think  I'll  go  straight  to  bed.  I'm 
fearfully  tired." 

"You  act  like  you're  going  to  faint,"  says  I. 
"If  you  feel  any  worse,  let  me  know  and  one 
of  the  boys  must  go  for  the  doctor." 

"Oh,  I'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning.  Sleep 
is  all  I  need.  Sleep!  Oh,  God — sleep,  sleep!" 
220 


LUCAS    MALLORY— AT    LAST 

She  repeats  it  and  sighs  like  she  don't  know 
what  it  means.  And  I  don't  think  she  did.  She 
looked  it.  Her  light  was  always  burning. 

It  was  my  watch  that  night,  and  I  was  fur 
ther  from  home  than  usual.  For  I  had  seen 
some  curious  lights  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Ferry  Road.  I  was  sitting,  in  the  edge  of 
Harg's  woods,  quiet,  with  my  carbine  ready, 
listening  for  a  repetition  of  some  sounds  I  had 
heard.  A  whistle  and  a  cough,  it  seemed  like, 
when  I  sees  something  more  substantial  than 
the  shadows  I  had  watched  so  often  steal  out 
of  the  woods  into  the  road.  In  a  moment  I 
knew  that  it  was  a  man.  Then,  though  it  was 
shadowy,  I  saw  that  it  was  a  soldier,  because 
of  the  faint  gleam  of  his  rifle. 

"Halt!"  I  calls  out.  "Who  is  it?  Don't 
move.  If  you  do  I'll  fire." 

If  I'd  fired  without  so  much  talk  I'd  have  got 
him  then  and  there.  But  he  dodged  back  into 
the  bushes.  I  started  to  run. 

"I'm  a  Union  officer,"  I  yells,  "and  by  the 
Lord,  I'll  do  my  duty  if  you  don't  stop.  If  you 

22 1 


WAR 

do  you  won't  be  hurt.  I'm  armed.  Give  the 
password !" 

Well,  just  about  the  last  syllable,  he  fires  at 
me,  the  charge  going  somewhere  up  in  the  tree- 
tops.  Then  came  several  shots  at  me  from 
different  directions. 

You  know  how  it  is.  When  a  man  fires  on 
you,  especially  several,  you  fire,  too,  though 
he  may  have  missed  you  by  a  mile.  I  suppose 
it's  the  intention  you  don't  like.  I  fired  as  I 
ran — straight  at  the  spot  in  the  bushes  where 
the  other  lead  had  come  from.  I  heard  a  cry 
and  knew  I  hadn't  missed. 

"It's  your  own  fault,"  I  says,  as  I  runs  up. 
"If  you'd  stopped  and  answered  I  wouldn't 
have  fired.  Are  you  badly  hurt  ?  I  don't  like 
to  kill  people.  But  these  are  war-times  and— 

I  had  reached  the  man.  He  lay  quite  still. 
I  lifted  him  in  my  arms  and  ran  to  the  house. 
Now  and  then  he'd  murmur,  "Washington!" 
I  remembered,  afterward,  that  he  seemed  not 
quite  the  sort  of  body  I  had  thought  to  pick  up. 
222 


LUCAS    MALLORY— AT   LAST 

I  put  him  down  on  the  kitchen  floor  and  struck 
a  light.  It  was  Evelyn. 

She  was  in  heavy  army  shoes,  and  a  new 
Confederate  uniform.  Her  hair  had  been  cut 
off. 

I  raced  up-stairs  with  her  and  put  her  on  her 
bed,  calling  Betsy.  But,  before  waiting  for 
her  to  get  there,  I  ripped  open  her  jacket  to 
find  the  wound.  A  rough  gray  undershirt,  a 
man's,  instead  of  the  dainty  things  she  ought 
to  have  worn,  covered  her  nice  body.  It  was 
soaked  with  blood. 


XXIV 

A  FAVOR   TO   SHOOT    HER 

BEFORE  Betsy  could  dress  and  get  there 
Evelyn  came  to.     She  understood  the 
whole  thing  at  once. 

"Evelyn,"  I  says,  "I  didn't  know  it  was 
you." 

Well,  with  all  that  blood  running  out  of  her 
she  laughs  and  hugs  me ! 

"And  I  didn't  know  it  was  you!  Thought 
it  a  picket.  What  a  state  of  things !  How  did 
you  make  your  voice  roar  so?  My,  but  you 
frightened  me.  You  could  tell  that  by  the 
way  I  fired.  Did  any  stars  fall?" 

I  couldn't  believe  it  for  a  minute  or  two ! 

"Daddy,  do  it  again,"  she  begs,  "please  roar 
again !  I  suppose  you  were  scared,  too !" 

She  laughs  and  hugs  me  again. 
224 


A    FAVOR   TO    SHOOT    HER 

"Evelyn,  forgive  me,"  I  says,  sorry  enough 
for  both  of  us,  God  knows. 

"On  one  condition,"  says  she,  with  all  her 
wits,  and  putting  a  hand  on  the  wound  to  stop 
its  bleeding,  "that  you  never  tell  on  me.  And 
help  me." 

''Well,  I  was  in  such  a  state  that  I  would  have 
agreed  to  any  other  condition.    But  I  says : 

"On  one  condition — that  you  don't  die." 

"Agreed,"  she  says.  "I  won't  die.  Oh,  I'm 
so  glad  to  live — now!  It  is  really  not  much. 
In  the  lower  left-hand  corner  of  my  jacket  is 
a  package  of  things  for  self-help  in  case  of 
wounds — sewed  in  the  lining.  Cut  it  out." 

As  I  took  up  the  bloody  jacket  she  laughed 
again  and  said : 

"That's  what  I  was  making,  and  unmaking, 
-like  Penelope,  daddy,  dear.  Not  a  trousseau, 
is  it?  And  it  is  all  beautifully  done.  Feather- 
stitching,  felling,  quilting!  Look  at  it.  And 
see  what  you've  done  to  it — ruined  it  at  the 
very  first  wearing.  I  said  you  were  never  to 
see  it.  And  I  meant  it.  But — you  never  can 


WAR 

tell.    Oh,  my  God,  I  thank  thee !    Now — now 
you  understand,  daddy !" 

But  it  was  sobs  for  a  minute  then. 

I  got  the  bandages  and  the  medicines,  and 
with  a  little  help  from  me  she  bound  up  the 
wound  as  good  as  any  doctor  could. 

"Stand  outside  the  door,"  she  commands  me 
briskly,  "and  if  Betsy  should  come,  tell  her  I 
had  nightmare  and  called  out,  but  am  asleep 
again." 

I  did  so,  and,  when  Betsy  came,  which  was 
soon,  I  told  her  that.  She  was  glad  to  be  able 
to  go  back  to  bed  again. 

"Come  in,"  whispers  Evelyn,  through  the 
door. 

When  I  enters  again,  Evelyn  is  in  her 
nightie,  like  a  regular  girl.  The  uniform  is 
gone.  You'll  hardly  believe  it,  but  she  laughs 
and  pulls  me  down  on  the  bed  beside  her. 

"Don't  look  so  sorry,  daddy,"  she  laughs, 
"you  have  done  me  a  big  favor." 

"Gosh-a-mighty !"  says  I,  "that's  the  first  time 
I  ever  heard  it  called  a  favor  to  shoot  you !" 
226 


A   FAVOR   TO    SHOOT    HER 

"You  didn't  shoot  me  much.  I  had  to  go — 
just  simply  had  to — to  save  us.  I  was  in  such 
a  position — that  I  had  to.  You  and  Jon 
enlisting  forced  me.  Anyhow,  they  wouldn't 
have  waited  much  longer  for  the  making  of 
the  uniform.  What  immortal  fools  we  be! 
©nee  I  tried  to  make  myself  believe  that  I 
wanted  to;  but  the  first  thought  I  had  after 
your  bullet  struck — and  before  I  fainted — was 
that  now  I  had  a  good  excuse  for  not —  How 
I  am  running  on !  Never  mind.  The  blood 
has  stopped.  You  won't  even  have  to  get  me 
a  doctor.  If  I  should  need  one  I  will  let  you 
know  promptly.  Don't  worry.  So  much  for 
that.  I  can  take  care  of  it.  Your  bullet  went 
through.  And  at  a  not  very  thick  place.  If 
no  blood  poisoning  sets  in  I  will  be  all  right. 
I  know  you  use  nice  clean  bullets.  If  it  does 
turn  bad  off  for  a  doctor  you  go — you,  not 
Jon  or  Dave — and  you  must  keep  my  secret 
as  sworn,  aforesaid.  But  about  my  hair — 
that's  the  difficulty.  It  will  be  best  for  you 
to  say  that  it  was  coming  out  so  fast  that  you 
227 


.WAR 

advised  the  cutting.  That  you  cut  it,  in  fact. 
It's  not  a  very  good  job.  I  will  stay  in  my  room 
for  some  time — I  will  have  to — and  by  the  time 
they  see  me  again  they  will  not  be  surprised  by 
its  loss.  Is  it  all  right?  Are  we  pals  in  this?" 

She  was  so  gay  and  happy  that  this  was  still 
another  Evelyn !  Full  of  fun  after  just  escap 
ing  being  killed  !  What  do  you  think  of  that ! 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "pals  in  this  and  everything 
to  the  death." 

"Not  death,"  she  shivers.  "I  don't  have  to 
die  now — since  I'm  killed." 

She  pulls  me  down  and  hugs  and  kisses  me. 

"Oh,  daddy,"  she  says,  happy  as  can  be. 
"you  certainly  did  me  a  great  favor  in  shoot 
ing  me !  They'll  be  satisfied  with  that.  Who'd 
ever  thought  of  anything  so  easy?  They'll 
know  who  Mallory  is  now.  God  knows  where 
I  would  have  been  by  this  time — because  I 
must — must.  Now  I  am  here" — and  she  whis 
pers,  soft  as  praying, — "where  Dave — is!" 

Then  some  more  hugs  and  kisses — and  she 
pushes  me  away. 

228 


A    FAVOR   TO    SHOOT    HER 

"Good  night,  dearest  of  daddies,  you've  done 
me  the  favor  of  my  life.  Honest!  I  wonder 
if  I  could  have  carried  it  through?  When  I 
heard  that  whistle  I  wanted  to  run  home  in 
stead  of  to  the  Potomac.  My  head  knew  the 
way  South,  but  my  legs  knew  only  the  way 
hjack  to  you-all.  Dave's  black  was  waiting  for 
me.  I  was  to  go  into  the  cavalry, — Stuart's. 
I  had  already  enlisted — as  Mallory." 

Then  it  seemed  as  if  the  horror  of  it  sud 
denly  came  over  her.  She  sobbed,  shrieked, 
raved  for  a  minute. 

"Oh,  daddy,  you  don't  know  what  you  have 
saved  me  from.  Why,  daddy,  if  you  had  had 
to  kill  me — if  I  were  lying  here  now  dying — • 
I  would  thank  you !  Yes,  that  would  be  better 
than  anything  I  had  planned!  Yes!  Daddy, 
daddy,  God  bless  that  bullet  of  yours!  And, 
yes,  yes,  as  I  said  before,  good  night,  dearest 
of  daddies,  good  night!  Thank  you — thank 
you  so  much  for  shooting  me.  There  seemed 
no  way  out.  Then  you  come  with  your  gun — 
and,  lo!  it  is  all  fixed  as  quickly  as  that  shot 
229 


WAR 

of  yours  came  after  me.    Yes,  yes,  good  night 
— good  night — " 

Then  I  has  an  idea — got  from  Jon. 

"Now  listen.  There's  a  way — a  way  to  hap 
piness  for  us  all — a  very  nice  way.  It's  all 
fixed.  Jon  has  been  sure  that  you  were  making 
your  wedding  things  in  your  room  and  that 
you  and  Dave  were  going  to  spring  a  wedding 
on  us.  The  way  out  of  the  whole  matter  is  to 
do  it,  carry  that  whole  idea  out.  As  Dave's 
wife  they've  got  to  let  you  alone.  Of  course, 
he'll  beat  you  sometimes  like  that  night,  ha, 
ha!" 

Such  a  light  as  came  into  her  face  at  that  I 
never  saw  before. 

"Daddy,  oh,  my  darling  daddy!  Do  you 
think  it  can  be  done?  Will  Dave  marry  me? 
— with  so  many  things  to  be  explained?" 

"Sight  unseen!"  says  I,  glad  that  she  took 
it  so  well.  "I'll  see  to  that.  I'll  speak  to  Parr 
Kellermann  as  soon  as  you  are  well  enough  to 
get  ready." 

230 


A   FAVOR   TO    SHOOT    HER 

"I'll  begin  to-night,"  laughs  Evelyn.  "Make 
him  marry  me !" 

"Not  quite  so  fast  as  that,"  says  I,  serious 
now.  "Before  I  make  Dave  marry  you,  you 
got  to  promise  that  you'll  behave.  You  re 
member  how  savage  he  was  when  he  said  he'd 
beat  you.  Well,  if  you  don't  behave  he'll  do 
it.  He'll  break  you  just  like  he  does  horses!" 

"Yes,  yes!"  she  laughs,  and  hugs  me,  "I 
know!" 

"Well,  I  hate  to  see  Dave  treat  you  like  a 
horse." 

"Don't  the  horses  like  him  afterward?" 

"You  bet  they  do." 

"So  shall  I,  daddy,  darling." 

"What,  you  mean  that  you  ain't  afraid  to 
be  broke  like  a  horse  by  Dave  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"By  goshens,  I  believe  you're  crazy  to  have 
him  do  it!" 

She  nods. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "I  expect  the  soldier  was 
231 


WAR 

right  that  I  am  a  little  slow  at  the  head.  I'll 
never  understand  that." 

"Not  till  you're  a  woman,"  says  Evelyn. 
"Good  night,  daddy,  dear.  And  thank  you  for 
not  saying  it  the  other  time.  No.  Wait.  / 
have  an  idea." 

"Hurry — before  it  gets  away !"  laughs  I. 

"They're  both  so  innocent  and  trusting,  not 
such  villains  as  you  and  I,  that,  maybe,  Jon 
and  Dave  would  believe  that  that  is  the  cause 
of  my  illness — getting  ready  for  my  wedding. 
I — I  was  so  crazy  for  it !  You  know  that's  an 
awful  strain  on  a  girl." 

"I've  never  been  a  girl,"  says  I.  "But  how 
are  you  going  to  make  Dave  believe  in  the 
craziness  for  the  wedding?  He's  asked  you 
seventy-five  times  to  fix  a  day  and  you 
wouldn't." 

"I  couldn't,  daddy,  daddy,  dear.    Don't  you 

see  that  this  was  hanging  over  me  ?    Oh,  it  has 

been  like  the  sword  of  Damocles  ever  since 

Dave  came.    For,  it  was  then  too  late  already. 

232 


A    FAVOR    TO    SHOOT    HER 

What  I  had  to  do  to-day  was  inevitable  then. 
Wasn't  it  awful?" 

"Rather  awful,"  says  I,  "but  don't  say  dam'. 
It's  not  nice  for  ladies" — though,  of  course,  I 
knew  who  Damocles  was — I  looked  it  up.  "The 
way  to  fix  it  is  to  fix  old  Jon  first,  and  then  get 
him  after  Dave.  Dave'll  believe  anything 
Jonthy  tells  him — if  it's  that  the  end  of  the 
world  is  coming  to-morrow  at  seven  minutes 
apast  eight.  And  Jon'll  believe  in  anything 
that  comes  from  you,  if  it  turns  white  black. 
But  don't  forget  that  Dave's  the  fellow  you're 
going  to  marry,  not  Jon,  and  if  he  don't  know 
anything  about  it — " 

She  laughs  in  the  old-fashioned  happy  way. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  old,  blind  daddy!  Why, 
what  do  you  think  has  been  going  on  right 
under  your  big  old  nose  all  the  time?" 

"Well,  what?"  says  I. 

"Daddy,  Dave  asked  me  to  marry  him  the 
first  day  and  also  the  second  and  third  day 
after  he  came  home !" 

233 


WAR 

"Gosh-a-mighty!"  says  I.  "Now,  you  don't 
say,  you  don't  really  say  so !  That  quick !  Not 
a  minute  wasted !  And  what  did  you  say  ?" 

She  laughs  again,  like  she'd  burst  open. 

"What  did  I  say !  Do  you  really  have  to  be 
told  that?" 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "I  want  to  know.  I'm  thick 
in  my  skull." 

Then  she  turns  solemn. 

"Why,  daddy,  I  said  what  every  other 
woman  on  earth  would  have  said,  if  he  had 
asked  them!" 

"He  didn't  ask  the  others,  I  expect,"  says  I, 
"anyhow,  not  quite  all  of  them.  And  I  don't 
know  what  they  said.  But  what  did  you  say? 
— that's  the  conundrum  that  bothers  me." 

She  pulls  my  ear  down  and  whispers  in  it : 

"Yes!  And  then,  so  that  he  couldn't  mis 
understand — it  would  have  been  frightful  for 
him  to  misunderstand,  like  his  dear  old  daddy, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"I  expect  so,"  nods  I. 

"Well,  then,  so  that  he  might  not  misunder- 
234 


A    FAVOR   TO    SHOOT    HER 

stand,  I  said  it  many  times  over,  and  every  time 
I  said  it  I—" 

Gosh !    She  kisses  me  about  fifty  times ! 

"Now,  is  it  all  perfectly  plain?"  she  asks. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "I  expect  that  means  that 
you're  engaged  ?" 

"Oh,  daddy!     What  did  you  do  when  that 
happened?     Maybe  you  are  a  little  thick- 
She  hammers  my  head. 

"Me?  I  had  to  have  it  plain  as  a  big  red 
barn.  You  can't  fire  things  into  me  like  out  of 
a  gun.  I  got  to  have  time  to  think  what  it  is 
first.  Up  and  down,  right  and  left,  backward 
and  forward,  inside  and  out.  I  asked  mother, 
right  out  if  she'd  marry  me.  No  kissing.  And 
she  said  just  as  right  out  that  she  would. 
Then  she  puts  her  hands  down  at  her  sides, 
and  I  pushes  my  whiskers  out  of  the  way 
and  kisses  her.  Anyhow,  I  think  I  did.  That 
was  the  intention — though  I'm  not  sure  where 
I  struck.  You  see,  I  had  read  all  about  pro 
posing  in  The  Lover's  Companion,  and  so  far 
as  I  could  recollect  when  it  happened,  that  is 
235 


WAR 

the  way  it  said,  and  that  is  the  way  it  hap 
pened — so  far  as  I  could  recollect." 

"If  Dave  and  I  had  only  known  that  you  had 
The  Lover's  Companion!  I  suppose  we  did 
it  very  badly.  On  the  first  day  he  just  sug 
gests  it.  On  the  second  day  he  demands  it. 
On  the  third  he  suddenly  lifts  me  from  my 
horse,  and  nearly  breaks  me  in  two.  'You're 
going  to  be  married/  says  he,  'before  you  know 
it,  girl!'" 

"  'You  don't  say  so !'  says  I.  'And  who  is 
the  unhappy  bridegroom?' ' 

"  'I  am,'  "  says  Dave.    'Now  say  when?' ' 

"And,  did  you?"  asks  I. 

"Not  yet,"  laughs  Evelyn,  "but  I  can  easy 
say  that  I  had  fixed  the  time  by  myself  to  sur 
prise  him.  Yes,  tell  them  that  I  got  sick  mak 
ing  my  wedding  things !" 

"All  right,"  I  says,  and  starts  to  go. 

But  she  pulls  me  back  again. 

"Do  you  think  they'll  stop  to  wonder  why  a 
bride  cuts  off  her  hair?" 

"Dave  won't.  He'll  never  know  it  if  you 
don't  show  it  to  him." 

236 


A   FAVOR   TO    SHOOT    HER 

"Then,  let's  not  say  anything  about  it  till 
after  the  wedding." 

"All  right.  Anyhow,  you  can  wear  a  net, 
filled  with  hair  out  of  the  sofa." 

"And,  daddy,  I  think,  in  a  very  little  while, 
you  might  speak  to  Parr  Kellermann." 

"All  in  good  time.  I  got  to  get  it  through 
Dave  that  you  are  going  to  marry  him,  by  fair 
means  or  foul,  and  behave  yourself  first." 

"And  last,  too,  daddy,"  she  laughs. 

I  was  trying  hard  to  go. 

"And,  daddy,  dear  daddy,  do  you  think  you 
could  get  Jon  and  Dave  to  stay  in  the  house 
for  a  while?  As  long  as  I  am  sick?" 

"Why?"  says  I. 

"Never  mind  that — if  your  skull's  so  thick! 
Just  get  them  to  do  it.  If  nothing  else  will  do, 
say  that  I  asked  it.  If  they  will,  they  may 
come  here  every  day  and  be  with  me!  Then 
I'll  be  sure." 

"My,"  says  I,  "do  you  think  anything  else 
is  needed?  That's  enough." 

"Daddy,  dear,"  whispers  Evelyn,  "put  Dave's 
horse  back  in  the  stable.  He's  in  Harg's  woods." 


XXV 

ORDER    NUMBER    249 

ON  MY  bureau  was  a  note  she  had  writ 
ten  for  me. 

"Daddy,"  it  said,  "I  am  Mallory— this  is 
the  only  solution.  They  know  in  the  North 
now.  They  know  in  the  South.  And  you 
know  what  they  do  to  spies.  Both  sides. 
And  the  horror  of  it  is  that  they  won't  do  it 
to  me,  but  to  Dave,  who  they  think  is — Mal 
lory.  But  if  they  know  that  Mallory  has  gone 
from  here  to  Stuart,  and  I  have  made  that  cer 
tain,  all  will  be  well,  only,  he  must  turn  up 
there — oh,  daddy,  daddy,  daddy!  Can't  you 
help  me?  Can't  some  one?  Just  think  of  it! 
I  must  be  a  soldier.  I'll  die  of  shame,  of 
course,  but  I  daren't  until  I  have  taken  the 
danger  from  you-all,  and  am  known  as  Mal 
lory. 

238 


ORDER   NUMBER   249 

"You  see,  daddy,  dear,  how  horrid  a  master 
evil  becomes.  I  began  to  help — just  help  the 
South  a  little  in  my  anger,  in  my  madness  for 
vengeance.  That  wasn't  bad,  was  it,  to  help 
my  people? — oh,  I  do  love  them!  And  Dave 
hadn't  come  and  there  was  no  Dave-love. 
Well,  I  couldn't  tell  them  that  I  was  a  woman 
— a  girl,  in  fact — could  I? — that  wouldn't 
have  been  nice — so  I  let  them  think  I  was  a 
man.  I  took  the  name  of  Lucas  Mallory. 
Daddy,  the  thing  I  didn't  think  of — didn't 
once  expect,  was  that  they  would  not  sus 
pect  me,  when  it  came  to  suspecting,  but  all 
of  you,  and  last  have  to  think  Dave  was 
Mallory.  See?  Well,  there  is  nothing  to  be 
done  but  for  me,  who  brought  the  evil  upon 
you,  to  take  it  with  me.  This  I  do  to-night. 
The  spy,  Lucas  Mallory,  disappears  to-night 
and  reappears  in  the  Confederate  army.  All 
of  his  activity  here  will  cease.  I  have  signaled 
that  and  when  Stuart  corroborates  me,  which 
I  shall  see  to,  you  will  hear  no  more  of  sus 
picion  or  treason — and  will  be  left  at  peace. 
239 


.WAR 

But  me — where,  what  shall  I  be  ?    And  Dave. — 
will  he  hate  me? 

"Keep  on  loving  me,  oh,  please !  Make  them 
all  love  me — always!  Don't  tell  Dave.  Say 
I  was  drowned — or  something  like  that.  If 
you  knew  how  hard  it  is!  If  you  knew  the 
sacrifice!  I  must  go.  The  signals  are  getting 
violent — Good-by!  Forever,  good-by!" 

Something  brought  to  mind  the  bundle  of 
papers  the  officer  had  dropped  that  day  when 
he  got  Betsy's  pies.  I  went  and  got  them. 

They  were  mostly  letters  from  a  wife  and  a 
little  girl — with  their  photographs.  But  there 
was  one  which  wasn't. 

"Order  No.  249,"  it  read.  "All  persons  in 
the  guise  of  pretended  loyal  citizens,  acting 
under  false  names  or  other  false  pretenses, 
within  our  lines,  and  giving  aid,  arms,  am 
munition  or  supplies  of  any  kind  whatso 
ever,  or  furnishing  information  to,  or  com 
municating  with,  the  enemy,  are  spies,  and 
arc  to  be  taken,  condemned,  and  shot  as  such. 
240 


ORDER    NUMBER   249 

In  this  connection,  the  government,  and  the 
general  commanding  the  department,  call  your 
attention  to  the  rumors  of  the  activity  of  a 
secret,  treasonable  organization  named  the 
Knights  of  the  Golden  Circle,  composed  of  so- 
called  Copperheads,  and  sympathizers,  for  the 
purpose  of  furnishing  comfort,  giving  aid, 
supplies,  recruits  and  information  of  our 
movements  to  the  enemy,  a  lodge  of  which 
is  said  to  be  in  your  immediate  vicinity.  You 
are  especially  expected  to  capture  and  thus 
summarily  end  the  activity  of  a  spy  named 
Lucas  Mallory,  a  man  who  has,  thus  far, 
eluded  all  attempts  to  take  him.  Before  his 
execution  you  will  endeavor  to  secure  from 
him  such  information  as  will  enable  you  to 
apprehend  all  members  of  the  said  treasonable 
organization,  or  organizations,  together  with 
such  evidence  as  can  be  secured,  as  well  as  to 
locate  the  said  lodge  and  capture  and  dispose  of 
all  persons  having  anything  to  do  with  its  oper 
ation.  The  general  is  determined  that  this  hot- 
241 


WAR 


bed  of  treason  shall  be  stamped  out.  And  to 
effect  this  you  are  hereby  given  military  au 
thority  adequate  to  the  object  proposed." 


XXVI 

*  TANKOO 

WELL,  I  must  leave  you  to  imagine 
what  my  feelings  were  as  I  looked 
down,  day  after  day,  on  that  beautiful,  bloody 
thing  with  my  bullet  in  it.  I  can't  tell  you — it 
chokes  me  up  now — unless  a  little  story  of  Jon 
and  me  would  do  it. 

I  used  to  gun  a  good  deal  when  I  was  young. 
Once,  when  I  was  out  for  rabbits  I  found  a 
cunning  young  one  just  a  couple  of  inches  long, 
a  regular  little  cotton-tail — with  no  parents 
about.  I  expect,  maybe,  that  I  had  killed  'em. 
It  was  starving  to  death.  I  brung  it  home  for 
Jon — about  three  or  four  year  old  then.  Well, 
you  never  saw  no  better  friends !  Jon  fed  him 
like  a  mother  and  he  took  it.  That  little  bunny 
would  follow  Jon  about  like  they  was  brothers. 
243 


.WAR 

He'd  come  to  the  table  and  sit  at  Jon's  elbow 
and  eat — sometimes  out  of  the  same  dish. 

Jon  he  made  a  little  funny  collar,  out  of 
some  oyster  pearls  and  a  string  for  him.  And 
he  called  him  Tankoo,  because  he  tried  to  say 
"Thank  you"  when  I  brung  it  for  him.  He 
growed  so  fast  with  all  the  feed  Jon  pushed 
into  him  that  soon  he  was  a  large  regular  rab 
bit.  But  he  never  stopped  those  intimate  ac 
quaintances  with  Jon. 

Then,  one  morning,  in  the  gunning  season,  I 
looks  out  of  the  window  and  sees  a  rabbit  run 
ning  about  in  the  Red  Meadow.  I  grabs  my 
gun  and  calls  out  to  Jon  to  come  and  we'd  "get 
him."  I  know  now  that  when  I  said  "get 
him"  Jon  didn't  think  I  meant  to  kill  him. 
He  looked  a  little  funny  at  my  gun,  but  we 
were  on  the  run  to  the  pasture  and  he  didn't 
have  time  to  say  anything.  When  we  got  to 
the  meadow  the  bunny  had  disappeared  But, 
in  a  minute  he  runs  straight  toward  us  from 
behind  some  bushes.  I  fires  and  he  falls. 
When  we  gets  to  him  it  is  Tankoo. 
244 


TANKOO 

Little  Jon  says  nothing,  only  looks  at  me,  for 
a  long  time.  I  remember  that  look  now.  How 
pale  his  little  face  was!  How  his  young  blue 
eyes  blazed  accusation  at  me ! 

He  took  Tankoo  in  his  arms,  all  bloody  and 
ragged — not  understanding — not  understand 
ing  at  all — and  when  he  can't  hold  his  little 
head  up,  only  open  and  close  his  brown  eyes, 
like  he  was  tired  and  hurt,  Jon  holds  him  out 
to  me  and  shrieks : 

"Fix  him!    Holes  in  him!    Oo  done  it!" 
But  there  was  no  fixing  Tankoo.    He  put  his 
head  under  my  little  boy's  arm  and  died. 

And  I  don't  like  to  remember  his  look  when 
he  drew  the  head  of  the  animal  forth  and 
found  the  eyes  steadily  open  but  in  them  no 
sight. 

When  he  understood  he  looked  up  at  me. 
And  I  see  that  look  often  in  the  nights  when 
I  think  cruel  thoughts. 

Betsy  said,   afterward,  that  when   Tankoo 
found  us  both  gone  he  ran  about  like  crazy  to 
find  us.     So  she  took  him  to  the  window  up- 
245 


WAR 

stairs,  where  he  could  see,  then  let  him  go  and 
he  scampered  off  after  us — just  to  love  us,  she 
said,  and  got  shot  for  it. 

In  the  most  remote  and  beautiful  part  of  the 
garden  the  little  boy  buried  Tankoo.  Then  he 
made  a  small  tablet  for  the  grave  on  which  he 
got  Betsy  to  write : 

TANKOO 

KILLED  BY  DADDY 
JUNE    IOTH,    1859. 

I  have  never  killed  an  animal  since.  And 
only  the  war  made  me  raise  my  gun  against  my 
own  kind.  But,  I  think  I  never  saw  a  man  fall 
in  battle  that  that  saying  of  little  Jon's  didn't 
come  to  me : 

"Fix  him!     Holes  in  him!     You  done  it!" 
And  then  I  would,  often,  see  that  little  tab 
let  Jon  had  placed  at  the  bunny's  grave : 

TANKOO 

KILLED  BY  DADDY 

Only,  instead  of  killed,  the  tablet  I  saw  read 
"murdered". 

246 


TANKOO 

And  Jon  has  told  me  that  the  same  thoughts 
have  come  to  him  amidst  the  dead  and 
wounded  on  the  battle-field. 

No !  I  wouldn't  kill  an  animal.  But  I  would 
kill  my  own  kind — in  that  thing  of  murder 
called  War. 

And  that  is  what  constantly  came  into  my 
mind  when  I  was  with  Evelyn : 

"Fix  her !    Holes  in  her !    You  done  it !" 

Next  day  was  uncomfortable  for  me.  For, 
besides  lying  to  all  the  rest,  I  had  to  look  out 
that  there  was  no  change  for  the  worse  in  Eve 
lyn.  But  she  was  so  happy — even  happier  than 
the  night  before — that  I  had  shot  her  that  she 
seemed  to  forget  the  wound.  It  was  regular 
faith-cure. 

"Why,  I  could  get  up,  daddy,"  she  laughs, 
"if  you  weren't  working  to  make  my  hair-cut 
convincing." 

In  the  afternoon  I  wanders  up  to  the  garret. 
There  were  two  lamps  near  the  window  fac 
ing   south,   which   I   had   never   seen   before. 
Nearly    new.      Stuffed    behind    the    window- 
247 


WAR 

frame,  like  some  one  had  done  it  hastily,  was 
some  fresh  clean  writing-paper  with  this  on  it  : 


Lii 
JL  II 


ti 


111    ILT 


And  on  the  other  side  of  the   frame  wa§ 
another  paper  —  ragged  and  old,  with  this  on  it. 


TANKOO 

I  takes  the  things  back  to  ask  Evelyn  what 
it  meant. 

"Well,"  she  says  after  a  while,  "if  you  had 
promised  to  go  to  dinner  at  a  friend's  house 
and  got  shot — wouldn't  you  send  your  re 
grets?" 

*"  "Yes,  I  expect  I  would,"  says  I,  "if  it  wasn't 
dangerous." 

"You  may  tear  up  that  chart,  daddy,  dear, 
and  put  away  the  lamps.  It's  all  over — like 
a  nightmare.  They're  no  more  use.  I  want  to 
forget  it.  You  do,  too.  I  wish  we  could 
make  the  trees  grow  again.  It  is  all  over. 
And,  if  they  come  for  me — why,  we'll  fight, 
won't  we?" 

"Like  an  army,"  says  I,  "defending  their 
last  ditch !" 

"Yes,  daddy,"  she  laughs  and  cries,  all  to 
gether,  "I've  fought,  bled,  arid  nearly  died  for 
my  country  and  against  my  love,  haven't  I?" 

"Yes,"  I  says. 

"And  I've  paid,  haven't  I?" 

"Yes," 

249 


WAR 

"And  been  foolish?" 
"Very,"  says  I. 

"I'm  just  Evelyn,  hereafter.  Not  a  rebel- 
not  a  Union — not  anything  but  Evelyn !  Wait 
ing  to  be  wife  to  Dave.  Nothing  more.  That's 
a  woman's  business.  To  be  a  wife — mother." 

As  you'll  notice,  she  didn't  tell  me  what  it 
meant,  and  I  was  a  little  curious — like  we  all 
are — not?  So  I  didn't  tear  up  the  diagram, 
but  showed  it  to  Jon,  thinking  he  might  know, 
telling  him  that  I  had  found  it  near  Crider's 
in  my  watch  the  night  before. 

"Why,"  says  Jonthy,  opening  his  eyes,  "this 
is  the  signal  chart  of  the  Knights  of  the 
Golden  Circle.  They  say  you  can  spell  out 
anything  with  a  light.  That's  the  Golden  Cir 
cle.  Why,  the  government  will  give  anything 
for  this!" 

"Well,"  I  says,  "the  government  ain't  going 
to  get  it.  In  a  minute  it'll  be  tore  up." 

"Yes,  I  guess  that's  better,"  nods  Jon.  "It 
might  make  more  trouble." 

"Spell  this,"  I  says,  handing  him  the  other 
paper. 


TANKOO 

Well,  by  the  help  of  the  chart  he  did  it  after 
a  time. 

"Mallory  caught  by  Federals.  Badly 
wounded.  Will  die,"  is  what  it  read — as  you 
can  see  for  yourself. 

Jon  grabs  my  hand. 

"I  hate  to  kill  things,  daddy,  and  to  gloat 
over  others'  miseries.  But  I  believe  that  I  am 
glad  Mallory  is  caught.  Now  we're  shut  of 
him!" 

Poor  old  Jon!  He  wouldn't  have  been  so 
glad  if  he  had  known  who  Mallory  was. 

That  night  I  went  to  the  garret  again,  to 
watch  Ben  Crider  and  a  couple  of  others,  at 
his  garret  window,  making  fools  of  themselves. 
And  I  thought  how  I  could  get  even  and  have 
some  to  spare  if  I  would  just  get  one  of  the 
soldiers  on  duty  to  come  up  there  with  me. 
But,  of  course,  that  might  have  made  trouble 
for  Evelyn.  It  was  so  plain  that  I  could  read 
it,  almost,  myself.  They  were  asking  for  re 
ports — answers  to  earlier  signals — and  de 
manding  daily  reports.  They  were  clean  crazy. 
From  the  way  they  acted  and  talked,  they 
251 


iWAR 

didn't  believe  that  Mallory  was  hurt.  They 
wanted  some  proof  of  it.  I  had  a  great  mind 
to  try  a  little  foolishness  with  the  light  myself, 
and  had  already  struck  a  match  to  light  one 
of  the  lamps,  when  I  remembered,  again,  that 
it  would  be  bad  for  Evelyn,  and  put  the  match 
out.  But  after  that  match  their  signals  got 
furious. 

The  whole  thing  was  well  arranged.  The 
trees  cut  down  at  our  house  and  those  from 
his  made  just  about  enough  of  an  avenue  to 
shine  the  lights  through  above  the  other  trees. 
You  had  to  be  in  line  writh  'em  from  the  outside 
to  see  anything — and  also  high  up  above  the 
trees  in  the  valley — and  this  was  almost  impos 
sible. 

I  decided  to  get  away  and  let  them  alone  or 
else  I'd  do  something  foolish  and  hurt  Evelyn. 
I  knew  that  she  would  do  all  that  was  necessary 
— if  anything  was — to  shut  it  off. 

But  coming  down-stairs,  my  candle  glittered 
on  something  shining  on  the  floor  at  the  dark 
place  where  the  garret  stair  took  off  from  the 
252 


TANKOO 

stairs  to  the  second  story.  I  bent  to  look  at  it 
and  found  that  it  was  a  drop  of  dried  blood. 
And  then  I  found  others — all  the  way  down. 

I  went  to  Evelyn's  room  and  said : 

"Did  you  climb  those  stairs  and  send  that 
message  ?" 

"What  message  ?"  laughs  she. 

"Mallory  caught  by  Federals.  Badly 
wounded.  Will  die,"  repeated  I. 

"It  wasn't  quite  true,  was  it,  daddy,  was  it  ? 
Is  that  what  you're  cross  about?  I'm  not  go 
ing  to  die !" 

"No,  Evelyn,  it's  true,"  says  I,  "ycm  didn't 
know  but  you  were  dying  then.  I  tracked  you 
by  the  blood." 

"Are  you  satisfied,  daddy?"  she  begs.  "I 
did  the  best  I  could — to  save  us !" 

"You  did  the  best  you  could,  God  bless  you, 
girl!"  I  says,  and  we  both  cried  together. 
"You  are  a  brave  girl !" 

"I  really  think,  daddy,"  she  sobs,  "that  I've 
saved  us — don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  says. 

253 


WAR 

I  had  meant  to  tell  her  about  those  furious 
messages  flying  above,  but  she  looked  so  pit 
eous  that  I  thought  it  might  worry  her,  and  so 
I  didn't. 


XXVII 

HIS  SHARE  OF  GLORY 

9> 

THE  editor  not  only  got  his  hundred 
men  but  twenty  over  in  case  any  should 
back  out — or  to  begin  a  new  company.  And 
it  was  off  to  war  for  certain.  I  think  those 
words  of  his  sunk  in.  It  was  just  in  the  lull 
when  everybody,  North  and  South,  was  tired 
of  the  war  and  when  a  hard  push  either  way 
would  win.  And  from  the  spirit  of  the  men 
who  enlisted,  they  were  of  the  opinion  that  the 
war  had  lasted  long  enough,  and  it  was  time 
to  give  the  push  from  the  North. 

It  wasn't  so  bad  as  long  as  they  played  sol 
dier  in  zouave  uniforms  and  shiny  arms.  But 
when  bread  and  coffee  and  meat  had  almost 
disappeared,  when  paper  money  was  worth 
twice  itself,  when  nobody  was  doing  anything 

255 


WAR 

but  fight,  when  the  farms  were  lying  idle  and 
barns  tumbling  down — 

And  then  we  began  to  know  that  much 
more  of  that  would  ruin  the  country  beyond 
repair — so's  any  other  country — which  was 
fool  enough  to  want  it — could  step  in  and  take 
it — and  us  with  it !  The  Johnies  were  fighting 
harder  than  we  thought  they  would  to  get  away 
from  us,  and  we  were  fighting  harder  than 
they  thought  we  would  to  keep  them  with  us 
— just  because  they  had  proved  such  fine  fel 
lows.  Well,  it  was  like  a  fight  between  two 
boys — which  one  jokes  about  until  the  noses 
bleed  and  the  eyes  are  bunged  shut.  Then  it's 
got  to  stop.  It's  serious.  But  just  then  the 
boys  fight  the  hardest,  and  the  blindest — just 
about  the  time  they  got  to  stop  on  account  of 
being  played  out. 

I  met  Kratz,  the  editor,  on  the  street,  and  I 
didn't  know  him!  He  was  in  a  zouave  uni 
form  and  wore  a  sword  a.  yard  long.  Second 
lieutenant ! 

256 


HIS    SHARE   OF    GLORY 

"Halt !"  he  yells  at  me,  as  happy  as  a  baby ! 
"Vonner,  your  uniform — all  of  them — will  be 
ready  the  day  after  to-morrow.    We  drill  twice 
a  day  after  that.     Center  Square.     Be  on  hand 
or  I'll  send  a  guard  after  you.    Oh,  man,  don't 
you  see  the  victory  already  ?    Why,  a  year  ago 
I^would  no  more  have  thought  of  getting  a 
hundred  men  out  of  Excelsior  for  the  Union 
army  than   I  would   have  thought   of  flying. 
Well,  don't  you  see  what  that  means?     The 
South  has  used  up  all  they  have.    Poor  chaps ! 
Not  another  man  can  they  get  into  the  army. 
Lord,  haven't  they  fought!    While  the  North 
is  just  waking  up.     Don't  lag.     Let's  go  and 
end  it.    Let  us  get  our  share  of  the  glory  be 
fore  it  is  too  late.     Let  us  help  to  force  a 
peace !    We  want  all  those  bully  boys  south  of 
Mason  and  Dixon's  line  back  again  in  our  bed. 
They're  too  good  to  lose." 

Well,  do  you  think  he  got  his  share  of  the 
glory?     There's  a  tombstone  in  Gethsemane 
burying-ground  with  this  on : 
257 


WAR 

JACOB  KRATZ 

SECOND  LIEUTENANT  AND 

ORGANIZER  OF  COMPANY  "K", 

STH  REGT.  MD.  VOLS., 

KILLED  AT 
CHANCELLORSVILLE. 

But  the  stone  has  fallen  on  its  face,  and, 
though  I  lifted  it  up  the  other  day,  I  could 
hardly  make  out  the  words.  I  asked  a  young 
man  passing  by  if  Jacob  Kratz  had  lived  in 
Excelsior. 

"Never  heard  of  him — and  I've  been  right 
here  all  my  life!"  he  answered. 


"Who's  paying  for  the  uniforms  and  so  on?" 
asks  I  of  Kratz. 

"I  am,"  says  he.  "You  think  I'm  too  poor? 
Well,  I  am.  But  I've  sold  the  paper  to  Gor 
man.  If  we  lose,  I  shan't  want  it.  I'll  emi 
grate.  If  we  win  I'll  start  a  new  one  three 
times  as  big!  Yes,  I  will.  I'll  set  the  type  and 
pull  the  press,  and  carry  it  around  to  the  sub 
scribers  myself.  And  glad  to  do  it.  Yes,  if  we 
258 


HIS    SHARE    OF    GLORY 

can  save  this  glorious  Union,  a  government 
better  than  any  ever  conceived  in  this  world 
before,  bring  our  Southern  brothers  back  into 
it,  I'll  give  all  I  have  and  get  more  to  give!" 

Ah,  the  foolishness! 

But  I  saw  that  red-headed  idiot  at  Chancel- 
lorsville  on  that  hot  Sunday  morning  go  into 
the  smoke  with  a  crazy  yell,  too,  not  knowing 
what  was  before  him.  When  I  saw  him  again, 
he  was  in  a  lead-lined  box,  with  that  yell  still 
on  his  lips,  that  light  still  in  his  face.  And  I 
thought  then  of  what  he  had  said  about  the 
glorious  Union.  He  believed  it.  He  died  for 
it !  It  must  be  so !  By  the  Lord  God,  it  is  so ! 


XXVIII 

WHERE    OUR    CLUB    MET 

WELL,  that's  what  I  told  the  boys — that 
she  got  sick  working  on  her  wedding 
things,  and  her  hair  fell  out  so's  I  had  to  cut 
it  off  for  her  to  save  it. 

"What's  that?"  says  Dave,  nearly  breaking 
me  in  two. 

"She's  going  to  be  married/'  says  I.  "If 
it's  not  to  either  or  both  of  you  boys  you'd  bet 
ter  be  looking  after  your  property." 

Jon,  you  remember  his  idea  about  it,  he  un 
derstood,  and  smiled  and  nodded,  like  he  knew 
all  about  it  from  the  first. 

But  Dave  was  puzzled  a  bit. 

"I  expect  I  better  go  and  congratulate  my 
self,"  he  says.  "It  may  be  one  of  the  things 
daddy  thinks  funny.  And  yet  it  may  be  a  wed- 
260 


ding  in  our  own  family.     Come,  Jonthy,  and 
chaperon  me." 

And  he  drags  Jon  after  him  straight  to  the 
door. 

There,  he  knocks  softly  a  bit,  then  he  says: 

"Evelyn,  if  you  are  not  asleep  and  hear  me, 
beready,  in  two  minutes,  by  the  watch.  Jonthy 
and  I  are  coming  in  to  see  what  daddy  is  lying 
about." 

I  had  followed,  sure  that  there'd  be  trouble, 
but  what  do  you  think!  She  laughed,  happy 
as  happy,  and  says : 

"Why  waste  two  whole  minutes!" 

Dave  gave  a  yell,  and  in  he  went.  In  fact 
the  yell  carried  him  as  far  as  the  bed,  where 
he  hugs  her — and  the  first  thing  you  know 
she's  fainted  like  a  rag  in  his  arms. 

I  never  saw  Dave  really  scared  before — 
scared  so  he  shivered,  and  chattered  his  teeth. 

But  she  brought  herself  to,  in  a  minute,  and 
put  Dave's  arms  away  a  bit. 

"It  hurts  a  little — there,"  she  smiles,  white 
as  a  sheet. 

261 


WAR 

"What's  the  matter?"  begs  Dave.  "You 
look  like  a  ghost — and  faint  dead  away  the 
moment  I  touch  you.  Daddy !  What  is  it  ?" 

He  turns  on  me  like  he  was  going  to  hit  me. 
But  Jonthy  stops  him  and  holds  his  hands  a 
minute. 

While  they  were  all  turned  from  her,  before 
any  one  notices  her  hair,  Evelyn  reaches  under 
the  pillow  and  gets  the  most  beautiful  night 
cap  you  ever  saw — all  pink  ribbons  and  lace, 
and  jams  it  on  her  head.  She  winks  at  me, 
and  I  knew  that  that  settled  the  difficulty  about 
the  hair. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  says  Evelyn,  "if  you'll 
handle  me  a  bit  more  carefully,  I'm  ready  to 
entertain  you." 

"Is  it  so — the  wedding?"  asks  Dave,  making 
like  he  would  lift  her  out  of  bed. 

Evelyn  nods  and  says : 

"Yes.    Do  you  like  it?" 

"Better  than  heaven!"  says  Dave,  barely 
holding  himself  back. 

262 


WHERE    OUR    CLUB    MET 

"Take  care  of  my  sore  spot!"  says  Evelyn. 
"I  can  answer  that  question  of  yours  now — 
'When?'" 

"Hurry !"  says  Dave. 

"In  a  few  days.  Just  as  soon  as  I — can 
stand  on  my  feet.  I  won't  be  married  in  bed." 
*"  "Thank  you,"  says  Dave,  solemn. 

"You  look  scared,"  laughs  Evelyn. 

"Yes,"  says  Dave  then,  "I'm  scared — scared 
half  to  death !  Look  at  Evelyn,  Jon !  How 
pale!  Is  she  dying?" 

"I  have  been  looking,"  says  Jon,  more 
scared  than  Dave.  "Don't  you  think  the  best 
thing — the  one  thing — we  can  ask  Evelyn  is 
to  tell  us,  honestly,  whether  or  not  she  is  seri 
ously  ill,  and  whether  she  is  sure  she  will  get 
well?" 

"Yes,"  says  Dave.  "For  God's  sake,  Eve 
lyn,  tell  us  that — and  we'll  be  satisfied." 

"Did  you  ever  see  me  happier?"  asks  Evelyn. 

"No!"  says  Jon  and  Dave  at  once. 

"Are  people  happy  who  think  they  are  sick 
263 


WAR 

enough  to  die — and  go  away  from  daddy  and 
Jon  and  Dave — or  even  be  sick  enough  to  be 
kept  away  from  them  a  little  while  ?" 

"No !"  says  both  my  boys  again. 

"Then  come  here,  both  of  you,  all  three  of 
you !  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

We  all  sat  as  close  to  her  on  the  bed  as  we 
could,  and  she  sort  of  got  her  arms  around  all 
of  us. 

"Don't  you  know  that  a  girl's  wedding  day 
— a  girl  who  marries  the  one  man  in  the  world 
she  can  marry — is  the  maddest,  darlingest, 
craziest  day  in  all  her  life?  Oh,  it's  a  won 
der  they  don't  all  go  mad — die — before  it 
arrives — as — as — I  have  done !  She  is  a  miser 
—gloating,  not  over  sordid  coins,  but  gos 
samer  clothing!  She  is  a  pirate — begging, 
buying,  stealing  the  most  beautiful  gems  in 
the  world  to  adorn  herself — for  him!  She 
is  a  priestess,  a  nun,  a  devotee,  praying,  pray 
ing  always  for  his  and  her  and  their  happiness ! 
She  is  already  a  wife — knowing,  understand 
ing,  what  it  is  to  be  bone  of  another's  bone, 
264 


WHERE    OUR    CLUB    MET 

flesh  of  another's  flesh!  Oh,  my  dears,  all  a 
girl's  life  leads  to  and  from  that  day.  When 
we  are  old  everything  happens  such  and  such 
a  time  after  our  wedding.  When  we  are  young 
every  date  is  subordinate  to  'When  I  am  mar 
ried.'  Don't  you  wish  you  were  all  girls, 
working  on  your  wedding  gear,  even  though 
you  sicken  and  die  for  it?  Don't  you  wish 
you  were  ready  to  melt  into  some  man's  arms 
and  be  lost — lost  forever?  Have  no  name  but 
his!  Be  nothing  apart  from  him!  Live  only 
in  his  life,  die  when  he  dies !" 

For  a  while  no  one  spoke.  Then  Jon  says, 
soft  as  praying : 

"Yes.  I  wish  I  were  a  woman.  There  is 
nothing  on  the  earth  so  beautiful!" 

Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that!  A  man 
wishing  he  was  a  woman ! 

"Jonathan,"  I  says,  "don't  be  foolish.  There 
must  be  men  and  women.  Be  glad  to  be  what 
you  are." 

And,  it  was  about  the  first  time  I  ever  knew 
Dave  to  be  speechless.    He  didn't  say  a  word. 
265 


WAR 

Just  put  his  lips  down  on  Evelyn's,  slow  and 
soft,  and  let  them  stay  there  a  long  time. 
After  all,  I  suppose  he  wasn't  as  speechless  as 
I  thought  I  expect  he  said  more  than  either 
Jon  or  me. 

And  so  the  three  of  us  sat  on  her  bed  and 
had  the  happiest  night  that  I  remember. 

And  so  it  was  every  night.  None  of  us  ever 
knew  each  other  right  till  then.  Evelyn's  bed 
was  our  little  club.  At  last  we  ate  our  meals 
there,  told  the  news  there,  and,  in  fact,  spent 
nearly  all  of  our  time  there. 

And  then  one  day,  when  no  one  was  think 
ing  of  it,  who  walks  in  to  the  breakfast  table, 
one  morning,  when  we  thought  it  too  early  to 
wake  her,  but  Evelyn.  And  of  all  her  loveli 
ness,  she  never  looked  so  lovely  as  then !  She 
was  excited  by  the  exercise,  for  it  was  far  too 
soon  for  that  sort  of  thing,  and  the  roses  in 
her  cheeks  fairly  flamed  against  their  thinness 
and  paleness,  and  her  head  was  covered  with 
short  curls!  She  was  in  the  prettiest  of  her 
dresses,  one  of  rose-color,  with  a  long  train, 
266 


WHERE   OUR    CLUB    MET 

and  loose,  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  Dave 
flew  at  her  and  that  she  had  to  remind  him, 
laughing,  that  it  still  hurt  a  little  where  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  putting  his  arms. 

Dave  put  her  in  her  seat  as  carefully  as  if 
she  were  china,  and  says : 

*  "And  now,  once  more,  when?  To-day? 
You  said  as  soon  as  you  could  stand  on  your 
feet — don't  bother  about  clothes — they  are  bad 
for  you !" 

"Yes,"  smiles  Evelyn,  "to-day,  if  you 
wish — " 

She  looks  around  at  Jon  and  me — 

" — To-day  if  it  suits  us  all — " 

Jon  turns  pale.  After  all,  I  suppose,  to 
stand  up  suddenly  and  see  them  married 
phased  him  a  bit. 

Then  Dave,  the  happy,  laughing,  singing, 
dancing  Dave,  says: 

"Daddy,  you  have  Preacher  Kellermann  here 

by  eleven  o'clock,  and  wear  your  stovepipe; 

and  Jonathan,  you  comb  your  hair  and  wash 

your  face  and  be  the  best  man — as  you  are, 

267 


WAR 

anyhow — and  Betsy'll  give  the  bride  away,  and 
some  pies — though,  as  she's  given  herself  away 
already,  I  don't  see  why  Betsy  should  work. 
But  we'll  have  it  all  according  to  law.  Any 
how,  the  rest  don't  matter  if  old  Kellermann 
gets  here.  And  everybody  be  joyous  and  don't 
touch  Evelyn's  sore  spot!" 

We  all  laughed  and  were  happy.  And  Dave 
surrounded  Evelyn  like  a  cloud. 

At  about  this  moment  a  strange  man  pushes 
open  the  door,  without  even  knocking,  and, 
making  signs  with  his  hands,  says : 

"Who's  sick  here?  Wounded?  What  man 
of  you's  dying?" 

"No  one !"  yells  Dave,  laughing,  and  happy. 
"Who  the  devil  are  you?  Don't  you  know 
there's  a  wedding  going  on,  not  a  funeral? 
Behave." 

He  doesn't  answer,  but  looks  us  over  like  he 
was  counting  us,  sees  the  happiness,  makes 
signs  which  no  one  understands,  but  which 
looks  like  the  Knight's  chart,  then  turns  away. 
We  were  going  to  follow  him,  when  a  soft 
268 


WHERE   OUR    CLUB    MET 

sound  made  us  all  turn.  Evelyn  was  just 
crumpling  to  the  floor  in  a  faint. 

"Of  course!"  cries  Dave.  "It's  our  fault — 
to  let  her  come  down  as  weak  as  this!  And 
then  have  this  fool  come  in  and  frighten  her!" 
He  would  have  killed  the  man  if  he  hadn't  got 
put  quick. 

We  carries  her  back  to  bed. 

"Daddy,"  she  says,  when  we  were  alone, 
"they  are  still  after  Mallory.  They  think  he  is 
well  again — or  never  has  been  sick,  or  has  lied 
or  deserted.  Once  a  spy,  always  a  spy — or  you 
are  shot.  And  there's  no  tapestry  to  weave 
and  unweave  now !  I  thought  it  was  all  over ! 
But  it  must  be  done  again,  I  expect.  You  must 
help  me,  daddy,  dear.  I'm  too  sick  to  do  it 
alone  this  time." 

"The  wedding  will  stop  all  that,"  I  said. 

"Ah,  the  wedding,"  she  sighed.  "Dave  must 
know  now.  And,  when  he  knows,  do  you 
think — there  will  be  a  wedding?" 

"Why  not?"  says  I. 

"Why  not?  Would  you  marry  me,  daddy, 
269 


WAR 

if  you  were  Dave,  remembering  what  you 
know  and  he  doesn't?" 

Well,  that  kind  of  gets  me.  I  really  hadn't 
thought  about  it  that  way. 

"We  said  the  other  day  that  we  would  do 
it,"  Evelyn  goes  on,  "when  we  were  all  happy 
and  thoughtless.  But — we  all  know  that  Dave 
must — understand." 

I  said  nothing.  I  couldn't.  And  I  suppose 
that  hurt  Evelyn's  feelings  a  little. 

"Tell  him  very  gently  and  sweetly,"  she  says 
then,  "that  it  can  not  be  yet.  Say  that  I  am 
too  ill." 

And,  after  a  while: 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  tell  him — all.  It 
will  have  to  be  done — some  time.  I  mustn't 
let  him  marry  me  under  false  pretenses." 

But  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  to  cause  all 
that  unhappiness — just  yet.  I  waited,  hoping 
that  something  would  happen  to  make  it  unnec 
essary.  And  Evelyn  slowly  got  her  courage 
back — but  not  like  the  night  she  was  shot.  She 
never  got  that  back. 


XXIX 

THE   LAST   DAY 

WELL,  Kratz  had  certainly  kept  us  busy 
drilling  and  parading,  and  electing  of 
ficers  as  fast  as  they  backed  out,  and  getting 
uniforms  made,  and  hearing  speeches,  till  it 
seemed  like  there  were  no  rebels  about  any 
more.  I  suppose  another  company  could  have 
been  raised  easy  after  they  saw  us  drill  and 
parade  in  our  uniforms. 

What  the  people  that  was  left  seemed  to 
want  now  was  everything  that  was  Union. 

And  everybody  who  wasn't  going  to  fight 
was  just  crazy  for  us  to  hurry  right  on  to  Rich 
mond  and  end  the  war  and  reduce  the  cost  of 
pork.  But  I  must  say,  for  one,  that  I  wasn't 
as  crazy  to  take  Richmond  as  I  had  been.  We 
knew  now  that  it  was  dangerous.  But  I  don't 
back  out  of  a  game,  once  I  am  in  it. 
271 


WAR 

We  had  it  all  arranged  that  Dave  and  the 
hireland,  with  a  little  help  from  Betsy,  could 
keep  the  farm  on  top  of  the  earth  for  the  little 
time  Jon  and  I  would  be  away. 

We  had  an  idea  that  when  we  got  to  fighting 
the  war  would  be  a  matter  of  months. 

And  so  came  the  last  day  before  we  moved. 
Dave  was  as  gay  as  ever,  and  still  thought  of 
it  as  a  picnic.  He  made  a  kind  of  farewell 
address  to  Jon  and  me — from  him  and  Evelyn. 
There  was  both  poetry  and  Scripture  in  it. 
Then  he  talked  in  a  funny  way  about  the  red 
roses  Evelyn  wore  in  her  cheeks — called  them 
Lancaster  roses — and  gave  Jon  and  me  a  bunch 
of  white  ones  out  of  the  ones  that  Evelyn  wore 
— which  he  called  York  roses.  I  didn't  know 
much  about  that  business  of  York  and  Lan 
caster  roses,  except  that  it  had  nothing  to  do 
with  those  towns  over  in  Pennsylvania,  but 
some  old-time  business  off  in  England.  Yet, 
under  it  all,  I  saw  that  Dave  was  sorry  for 
us,  and  was  just  trying  to  keep  up  and  keep  us 
all  up — on  account  of  Evelyn,  I  expect.  We 
272 


THE    LAST    DAY 

were  in  our  full  uniforms,  for  the  first  time, 
account  Dave  made  us,  and  even  wore  our 
arms  to  supper!  Dave  made  us  stand  up  to 
gether  now  and  then  to  look  at  us.  And  I 
begun  to  think  he  was  crazy  to  be  inside  of  a 
uniform  himself. 

''''Look  mighty  glorious,  don't  they,  Evelyn?" 
asks  Dave. 

"Yi — yes,"  says  Evelyn,  choking  on  some 
bread. 

"Especially  old  Jon.  Say,  Jon,  you  been 
fooling  us  all  the  time.  You  weren't  no  farmer 
nor  no  student  nor  no  preacher.  You've  been 
a  soldier  all  the  time !  And  now  you're  telling 
us  the  truth.  By  God,  you'll  give  a  good  ac 
count  of  yourself  down  there!" 

Well!  Dave  used  all  kinds  of  strange  lan 
guages,  but  that's  the  very  first  time  I  ever 
heard  him  swear.  We  all  jumped  up,  and,  I 
think,  we  all  got  white.  Evelyn  looked  like  a 
ghost. 

"Davy,"  says  I,  "don't  you  be  worked  up 
about  Jon's  patriotism.    He's  going  on  account 
273 


WAR 

of  a  small  aching  void.  And  as  soon  as  that's 
all  filled  up  he'll  be  back." 

Jon  nearly  kicked  my  shin  off. 

"Daddy,"  says  he,  "it's  not  a  good  time  to 
be  joking — just  before  we're  going  away. 
Dave  knows  what  I  am  going  for — patriot 
ism." 

"That's  right,  brother,"  says  Dave,  in  a 
funny  mood,  reaching  over  and  taking  Jon's 
hands.  "It's  a  thing  I  didn't  think  I  owned — 
till  to-night.  But,  by  the  Lord,  if  it  wasn't  too 
late,  I'd  get  into  a  uniform  myself.  I  may  yet. 
It's  a  great  thing  to  love  your  country  well 
enought  to  die  for  it.  God  bless  the  Union  for 
ever  !  Hip,  hip,  hurrah !" 

He  begun  serious  and  ended  funny — as 
usual. 

"Ah,  Dave,"  says  Jon,  "you're  forgettin' 
something  better  than  your  country." 

Neither  of  them  looked  toward  Evelyn,  but 
both  understood,  and  Dave  goes  over  and 
touches  her,  almost  as  if  she  were  a  stranger. 

"Yes,"  he  says,  dreamy,  "I  didn't  think  there 
274 


THE    LAST    DAY 

was  anything  on  earth  or  in  heaven  could  make 
me  forget  this  and  these  and  this — 

He  puts  his  hands  through  her  hair,  touches 
her  eyes,  and  kisses  her.  But  it  was  plain  to 
see  that  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

"Isn't  it  strange,"  he  goes  on,  "that  I  never 
tl^ought  of  it  till  now !  I  really  have  had  no 
convictions,  rebel  or  Union,  till  now.  It's 
good — oh,  'It's  sweet  and  glorious  for  one's 
country  to  die.'  That's  a  Latin  quotation,"  he 
laughs  at  me. 

I  didn't  know  it  then,  but  I  know  it  now : 
"0,  carlo r  et  gloria  est  pro  patria  mori." 
Evelyn  knew  it  and  found  it  for  us. 
"Evelyn,"  says  Dave,  sitting  half  on  the  arm 
of  her  chair  and  half  on  her,  "something  in 
side,  here,  is  drawing  me  to  the  army.    I  know 
now  what  has  kept  the  ranks  full  notwithstand 
ing  the  pine  boxes  we  see  at  the  station  so 
often  now.     They  had  the  good   fortune  to 
feel  when  they  enlisted  as  I  do  to-night.    Don't 
you  think  I'd  better  go,  dear  ?    Don't  you  want 
to  send  me?    Don't  you  want  a  soldier?" 
275 


WAR 

She  didn't  hesitate  a  minute. 

"Yes,  Dave,"  she  says,  "go,"  shivering. 

But  I  chimes  in : 

"Who  d'you  think  is  going  to  take  care  of 
her — and  the  farm?  If  Jon  and  me'd  known 
that  you  were  so  crazy  to  go  we'd  have  stayed 
at  home  and  left  you  go.  Why  didn't  you 
speak  up  sooner?  Now  you  got  to  stay  at 
home.  Evelyn  daren't  be  left  alone." 

Evelyn  thanks  me  with  her  frightened  eyes, 
and  Dave  lets  out  a  great  sigh. 

"All  right,  daddy,"  he  says,  "all  right." 

"You'll  get  over  that  feeling  in  your  breast. 
If  not  before,  as  soon  as  the  first  shell  drops 
behind  you.  They  say  that's  an  awful  scare- 
to  be  smiling  and  suddenly  have  to  change  your 
face.  Don't  try  it  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

Dave  turns  away  as  if  he  had  forgotten  Eve 
lyn,  and  she  looks  after  him  as  if  she  didn't 
know  what  had  come  over  him. 

She  seemed,  somehow,  to  have  been  de 
serted  by  all  of  us ! 

"Jon,"  says  Evelyn,  choking,  "I  want  to  talk 
to  you!" 

276 


THE    LAST    DAY 

And  out  she  goes  to  the  seat  under  the  plums. 

Jon  looks  round  at  us  a  moment  in  wonder 
at  it  all.    Dave  goes  on : 

"To-night,  somehow,  when  I  see  you  and 
daddy  in  your  uniforms,  ready  to  be  sacrificed 
— that  comes  close  home — when  your  father 
arid  your  brother  are  ready  to  march  to  the 
firing  line.  I  wish  to  God  you  hadn't  enlisted. 
I  am  the  one  to  go.  I  really  have  a  feeling  of 
hatred  for  the  South  to-night  for  taking  you 
from  me.  And  as  you  see,  I  am  really  the  one 
in  the  family  who  has  the  most  pronounced 
views  on  the  war.  Look  here,  slip  off  your 
uniform.  We  are  of  about  the  same  size.  We 
look  enough  alike.  They  won't  know  the  dif 
ference.  Let  me  go  in  your  place!  Honest! 
I'm  fighting-crazy,  too.  I  want  to  go.  I've 
got  to  go !" 

"Dave,"  I  says,  nodding  after  Evelyn,  "that 
hurts  her.  And  what's  the  use?  It's  too  late. 
She  has  trouble  of  her  own.  Don't  make  it 
worse.  She  needs  protection — needs  it  bad." 

Jon  takes  Dave,  very  quiet,  by  the  shoulders, 
and  when  he  has  him  eye  to  eye,  he  says : 
277 


XXX 

THE    SACRIFICE 

WE  could  hear  Evelyn  crying  and  rav 
ing  and  Jon's  voice,  deep  and  kind 
and  persuading.  Up  and  down,  up  and 
down.  It  had  an  effect  upon  Dave.  At  first 
he  just  looked  at  me — not  through  me — with 
his  face  between  his  hands.  That  was  wonder 
ful,  too — to  see  a  son  of  yours  who  has  only 
laughed,  so  far,  with  his  first  wo  in  his  young 
face.  At  last,  with  a  sigh,  his  eyes  left  me  and 
saw  nothing.  But  I  noticed  a  slow  change  in 
him.  His  eyes  grew  wide,  his  nostrils  stiffened, 
he  drew  his  breath  between  his  teeth.  He  was 
at  the  open  window  hearing  what  Jon  and 
Evelyn  were  saying.  For,  even  I,  consid 
erably  further  away,  could  hear  a  good  deal 
of  it,  but  not  enough  to  make  sense — which 
280 


THE    SACRIFICE 

must  have  carried  to  Dave.  Finally,  as  if  he 
understood  something  for  the  first  time,  he 
swelled  up,  then  relaxed  and  let  his  head  droop 
to  his  arms  on  the  table.  Jonathan  talked 
louder  and  louder,  and  Evelyn  was  almost 
shrieking  now.  For  a  while  I  thought  it  was 
ail  on  account  of  our  going. 

At  that  time  it  came  to  me  in  small  bits 
which  made  no  sense — what  they  were  saying 
out  there.  Afterward  I  understood  it  well.  It 
is  that  I  tell  you  now — not  exactly  what  dis 
jointed  phrases  came  to  me  at  the  time,  but  the 
completed  conversation  as  time  and  after- 
events  made  it. 

They  had  talked  about  those  past  days  be 
tween  them  before  Dave  came  home,  the  joy 
and  the  sorrow  of  them. 

Now  she  was  telling — had  told — Jon  all — 
all  that  she  had  made  me  swear  to  keep  secret. 

She  knew  the  strange  man  who  had  looked 

in  the  door — and  the  signs  he  made.     He  was 

an  officer  of  the  Knights.     He  had  seen  that 

Dave,  who  was  thought  to  be  Mallory,  was  not 

281 


WAR 

sick,  never  had  been.  Dave,  himself,  had  said 
so.  Dave  would  be  thought  to  have  deceived 
them  with  the  pretense  of  illness.  Mallory 
must,  at  once,  prove  his  apparent  faithfulness, 
disappear  from  here  and  turn  up  in  Stuart's 
cavalry  or  run  the  risk  of  the  secret  silent  "ex 
ecution"  the  Knights  visited  upon  deserting 
spies. 

"And,  Jon,  dear,  I  am  so  sick!  I  shall  die 
on  the  way.  And  no  one  will  know  it.  I 
shall  lie  in  the  woods  and  rot  and  never  reach 
Stuart — and  Dave  will  still  be  in  danger,  for 
he  will  still  be  here,  and  he,  not  I,  is  thought 
to  be  Mallory.  Nothing  I  can  now  say  will 
change  that.  No  one  will  believe  me.  They 
know  Mallory  only  as  a  man.  And  it  must  be 
— to-night.  The  signs  said  so.  So,  you  must 
help  me  across  the  line.  I  can  not  reach  there 
alone.  You  can  still  return  in  time  to  join  your 
command  if  we  start  now.  You  know  the 
password.  I  have  my  uniform.  I'll  put  it  on." 

And  she  must  have  started  away. 

"Wait — wait !"  says  Jon.  "Something  must 
282 


THE    SACRIFICE 

be  thought  of — done — but  not  that.  I  am  be 
wildered — crazy.  I  can't  think  yet.  Wait! 
No — not  a  word  to  Dave.  If  he  knew  he 
would  go — oh,  yes! — go  as  Mallory.  I  know 
Dave !  For  that  would  mend  all !" 

"That,"  says  Evelyn,  "is  why  I  must  go 
rtbw.  Only  when  I  die  on  the  way,  as  I  am 
sure  to  do  without  you,  don't  you  see  that  I 
have  helped  nothing?  Mallory  will  still  be  here 
in  the  person  of  Dave." 

"I  see,"  says  Jon. 

"That  is  what  you  must  think  of — if  you 
can't  go  with  me.  How  my  death  will — can  be 
made — to  cancel  all.  Do  you  think  it  can ?  If 
you  were  not  going  away,  too,  you  could  tell 
them — swear  that  I  am  Mallory — let  them  find 
me — dead — " 

"God !"  says  Jon. 

"God — "  repeats  Evelyn.  "Yes — they  must 
find  Mallory.  But  then  they'd  know  that  I  was 
not  he — that  I — I  am — was — " 

"A  woman!"  says  Jon.     "They  would  un 
cover   your   body — touch    it    with    loathsome 
283 


iWAR 

fingers — laugh — your  dead  eyes  would  be  star 
ing  up  at  them — your  lips  would  be  smiling 
— your  mouth — your  hair  would  be  fallen 
damply  over  your  face — yes,  they  would  laugh 
at  their  mistake  and  go  away  and  let  you  lie 
for  the  carrion  birds — and  even  then  Dave 
would  not  be  saved !" 

"Stop!"  shrieks  Evelyn.  "What's  to  be 
done — what's  to  be  done?  I  can  not  go.  I 
dare  not  die.  Daddy?  "  she  whispers  at  last 
very  low. 

"No!"  thunders  Jon.  "He  deserves  least  of 
all  to  be  the  sacrifice.  He  has  had  least  of  you. 
And  they  wouldn't  believe  him  a  traitor." 

"Then  who — Jon,  dear,  will  go  as  Lucas 
Mallory?  Some  one  must — for  Dave's  sake!" 

"I,"  says  Jon. 

"Oh,  my  poor  Jon — my  poor  old  Jonthy! 
To  think — No,  no !  Let  me  die.  It  will  be  best 
that  way." 

"That  way,"  says  Jon,  as  if  through  his 
closed  teeth,  "accomplishes  nothing  but  your 
death.  The  trouble  is  still  there.  You  dare  not 
284 


THE    SACRIFICE 

die.     That  much  is  certain.     Mine  is  the  only 
way." 

There  was  another  silence,  and  then  Jon 
went  on : 

"You  will  tell  them  that  I  am  Mallory. 
That  I  shall  go  with  my  men  to  the  Union 
£ront.  Then  I  shall—" 

It  was  a  long  time  before  anything  more  was 
said. 

"I  have  the  courage  now  for  the  word! 
Desert!  When  we  are  before  Stuart  I  will  de 
sert  to  him  and  enlist  as  Mallory.  Tell  them 
so." 

He  hurried  it  all  out  terribly  as  if  he  was 
afraid  he'd  never  get  it  out  otherwise. 

"That  is  what  you  must  tell  them  with  the 
code  to-night.  That  I,  a  Union  captain,  am 
leading  my  men  toward  the  Confederate  front 
so  that  I  can  step  over  to  them.  That  I  am — 
that — kind — of  a — Union  man!  God  Al 
mighty!  God,  God  Almighty!" 

"Oh,  my  poor  Jon — my  poor  old  Jonthy!" 
sobbed  Evelyn  again. 

285 


WAR 

"Peace,"  says  Jonathan,  more  quiet  now.  "It 
is  decided." 

"Signal  to-night  yet,"  says  Jon,  "the  last  sig 
nal,  that  Lucas  Mallory  has  gone  to  join  Stuart. 
To  look  for  him  there." 

"Yes,"  says  Evelyn,  "and  after  the  war  is 
over,  soon,  soon,  then  I  will  not  seem  so  bad. 
I  shall  confess — in  his  arms.  Some  things 
which  are  tragic  now  we  shall  be  able  to  laugh 
at  then.  Then,  we'll  tell  him  and  I'll  take  my 
chances  with  him — but  not  now.  I'm  too 
sick.  I  should  die  telling  him,  seeing  his  eyes 
flame." 

We  could  hear  her  break  down  in  sobbing. 
And,  then,  Jon: 

"Kushy,  kushy,"  he  half  sung,  "you  are  not 
well  enough  for  such  terrible  emotions.  Kushy, 
kushy!" 

Then  there  was  pleading  and  promising 
about  something  I  couldn't  hear. 

"Yes,  yes,   yes,"   says  Jon,   as   if  he  were 
pronouncing  his  own  death  sentence,  "that  is 
better — my  treason — than   Dave's — and   your 
286 


THE    SACRIFICE 

separation — better  than  that  you  should  die.  I 
have  decided.  There  is  no  other  way.  Be  at 
peace." 

Then  there  was  some  talk  which  just  missed 
reaching  me,  but  which,  I  think,  reached  Dave. 
I  turned  to  catch  it  better;  I  heard — barely 
lieard — old  Jon  say : 

''Then,  so  it  shall  be.  We  will  be  within 
touch  of  the  Confederate  lines  in  less  than  a 
week.  Then !  But,  I  mean  my  brother  to  have 
what  I  am  buying  for  him  at  such  a  fearful 
price.  Do  you  understand?  Will  you  play 
fair  now?  He  must  have  you!" 

"I  understand,"  says  Evelyn.  "And  I  will 
play  fair,  hereafter.  It  won't  be  long,  dear 
Jon,  the  war  is  almost  over.  Then  all  will  be 
right.  There  will  be  no  Unions  or  rebels — or 
treason — only  us — always  together!" 

'Then,  I  am  ready  to  say  good-by.  I  shall 
probably  never  look  upon  your  face  again. 
After  to-night  I  shall  probably  never  look  upon 
that  of  my  brother.  Let  me  see  you  for  the  last 
time  on  earth." 

287 


WAR 

Then  a  silence. 

"My  God!"  I  heard  Jon  say,  and,  then 
again,  "my  God !  Who  would  think  that  you 
—beautiful,  wonderful — you  could  be  the 
cause — " 

I  closed  my  eyes  and  could  imagine  Jon 
looking  into  that  face  which  could  be  so  won 
derful,  as  he  turned  it  to  the  moon. 

And,  then,  suddenly,  I  turned  upon  Dave  — 
something  made  me  do  it — and  such  a  Dave  I 
had  never  seen  before.  Ach!  It's  wonderful 
what  an  effect  the  mind  has  upon  the  body — 
and  so  quick ! 


XXXI 

THE  COST WHO   PAYS 

9> 

A  I  have  said,  I  didn't  really  know  what 
was  going  on  outside.  Just  a  word  here 
and  there.  When  my  wits  got  to  work  right, 
afterward,  and  things  happened,  I  knew  it — as 
I  have  told  it.  But  then  I  didn't.  It  was  all  a 
confused  mass  of  words.  So,  I  couldn't  quite 
see  why  Dave  should  act  so  queer — except  that 
we  were  all  in  a  strained  humor  that  night — 
nothing  was  natural. 

He  was  sitting  up  straight,  now,  and  looking 
through  me.  His  face  was  like  a  ghost,  with 
his  eyes  wide  and  burning  in  the  midst  of  it. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  never  seen  anything 
so  awful  as  my  own  son  just  then.  Him  we 
thought  of  only  lately  as  a  baby.  Little  Dave ! 
And  as  he  looked,  I  felt  myself  becoming  spell- 
289 


WAR 

bound,  as  the  brauchs  do  when  they  witch 
craft  one.  I  couldn't  open  my  mouth,  nor  stir 
a  hand  or  foot.  What  do  you  think  of  that? 
And  yet  it's  true. 

I  think  it  must  have  been  ten  minutes  before 
I  shivered  and  the  sweat  poured  out  and  the 
spell  broke.  But  that  was,  maybe,  because 
Dave  had  changed  his  thoughts.  That  is  the 
way  with  a  branch. 

"What  have  you  heard?"  asks  Dave,  point 
ing  outward.  And  I  hardly  knew  his  voice. 

"Just  a  word  here  and  there,"  answers  I.  "I 
don't  know  whether  it's  quarreling  or  loving 
or  hell.  I  got  to  put  it  together  first." 

"It's  nothing,"  says  Dave,  "don't  put  it  to 
gether  and  don't  think  of  it  again — nothing — 
nothing — nothing !" 

But  he  shrieks  the  last  word,  and  laughs  like 
he's  going  crazy. 

"Dave,  what's  up?"  I  asks  him.  "You 
sick?  Shall  I  ride  for  the  doctor?" 

Still  nothing  but  the  white  face  and  the  flam 
ing  eyes  and  the  hoarse  laughter  for  another 
ten  minutes.  We  could  still  hear  the  two 
290 


THE    COST— WHO    PAYS 

voices  outside.     But  I  don't  think  either  of  us 
noticed  much  what  was  being  said  then. 

Then  Dave  let  out  a  long  shivering  sigh,  still 
sitting  up  straight,  the  tears  running  down  the 
white  face.  No  laughing  now.  I  was  glad  for 
the  tears! 

'''Daddy,"  says  he,  "you  ought  have  told  me 
that  Jon  loved  Evelyn  before  I  came — you 
haven't  played  fair  with  me,  daddy — not  any 
of  the  three  of  you." 

I  tried  to  lie. 

"It  wasn't  much  between  them,  Davy,"  says 
I.  "I  don't  think  it  amounted  to  anything — 
for  sure." 

"Ah,  yes!  If  I  had  only  stayed  away  with 
my  habit  of  taking  things  that  don't  belong 
to  me!" 

He  flung  out  his  hands,  in  agony,  toward  the 
plum  trees ! 

"Poor  old  Jonthy!  Poor  old  Jonthy!  I 
wouldn't  have  taken  her  from  you  for  all  the 
world !  I  didn't  know,  Jonthy,  I  didn't  know ! 
I  would  have  cut  my  own  heart  out  first !  The 
one  great  thing  in  your  dear  life !" 
291 


WAR 

"Kushy,  Davy,"  says  I  to  him,  like  when  he 
was  a  baby.  "Jon  knew  you  didn't  know. 
And  he  was  glad — glad.  She  was  so  lovely 
that  he — well,  he  wanted  you  to  have  her." 

"Yes!  And  so  did  you — it  has  been  with 
Evelyn  like  everything  else  since  I  was  born. 
I  was  to  have  her.  She  was  for  me !  No  mat 
ter  who  else  wanted  her  or  was  hurt !  And  she 
knew!  Daddy,  she  knew  and  let  me  do  this  to 
Jon!  I  wish  I  could  understand  that!  Do  you, 
do  you,  daddy?" 

"Davy,"  says  I,  "although  she  knew  up  here, 
at  the  head,  like  all  women  know  when  a  man's 
foolish  about  her,  especially  when  the  man  has 
told  them,  yet  she  didn't  know  it  down  here,  at 
the  heart.  There  was  too  little  of  it,  especially 
after  you  came,  when  immediately  she  didn't 
know  anything  but  you  down  below.  That's  it. 
And  it  was  just  as  too  late  then  as  now.  If  she 
had  told  you,  you  would  have  gone  away  from 
her.  And  she  loved  you.  Can  you  blame  her? 
It  was  too  late  after  the  first  minute !" 

"But  you  knew,  daddy,  dear,  and  let  it  go 
292 


THE    COST— WHO    PAYS 

on  day  by  day !  Ah,  you  have  the  same  excuse. 
But  Jon!  What  must  Jon  think  of  me!  Of 
course  he  wouldn't  tell !" 

I  shook  Dave  until  he  listened. 

"How  often  must  I  tell  you,"  I  yells,  "that 
we  all  knew  that  you  didn't  know !" 

*'And  was  I  too  worthless  to  be  protected 
against  myself,  daddy?" 

"I  don't  understand  that,"  I  said. 

"Ah,  well,"  says  Dave,  "no  matter  that.  It 
is  the  smallest  part — me.  But  the  cost !  That 
must  be  looked  after.  Who  pays?  The  cost — 
the  cost !  Am  I  to  take  her  and  let  Jon  pay  the 
price?" 

We  just  stared  at  each  other  for  a  long 
while. 

"Daddy,"  yells  Dave,  "answer.  Am  I  to 
take  the  woman  and  let  Jon  pay  her  price ;  do 
what  she  demands  ?"  He  points  out  to  them. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Davy,"  says 
I,  as  kind  as  possible.     "Of  course,  you  got 
the  woman  and  you've  got  to  pay — whatever 
there  is  to  pay.     I  don't  know  what  it  ic  " 
293 


WAR 

"Yes!"  says  Dave,  "I  have  got  to  pay!  I 
took  the  goods — no  matter  that  I  got  them  like 
a  thief  in  the  night — I  have  got  to  pay  for  the 
stolen  goods!  By  the  Lord,  I  will!" 

Then,  after  a  good  while,  he  changed  back 
to  the  old  way. 

"Daddy,"  he  says,  very  soft,  "I've  not  been 
a  good  son  to  you.  No,  no,  no !  There  is  no 
use  in  saying  that  I  have  been.  I  see  it  all  in 
this  moment  of  revelation.  I  have  been  pleas 
ant  to  you — gay — laughing — happy.  But,  ah, 
that  is  far  from  making  a  good  son  of  any  one. 
In  fact,  when  I  look  back,  I  am  obliged  to  con 
fess  that  I  have  been  no  good  to  any  one.  I 
have  just  crowded  every  one  else  aside  so  that 
I  might  go  laughing  and  happy  through  the 
world  myself.  Well,  there  always  comes  a  day 
of  reckoning  for  such.  Mine  is  here.  I  think 
God  means  me  to  even  up  with  the  rest  of  my 
life.  Well,  He  shall.  I  am  willing.  I  must 
be." 

"Why,  Davy,"  says  I,  "what  talk !  You  have 
kept  my  old  heart  bright  and  happy  ever  since 
294 


THE   COST— WHO    PAYS 

you  were  born.  Ain't  that  something?  And 
Jon  wouldn't  be  anything  without  you.  Hon 
est!  Jon's  like  the  Siamese  twins  with  you. 
Yes,  Davy,  I  begun  to  have  fun  with  you  be 
fore  you  were  a  week  old.  You  was  such  a 
comical  little  chap.  And  you  were,  really,  all 
I  "had  to  have  fun  with.  Your  mother  was 
dead,  and  Jon  was  too  solemn.  Why,  Jon  was 
nearly  as  old  then  as  he  is  now.  Davy,  I 
wouldn't  have  you  changed  one  jot  or  tittle. 
You  were  a  sunbeam  in  a  dark  place.  You 
have  always  been.  I  know  you  always  will  be." 

"A  sunbeam,  daddy!"  says  Dave,  with  the 
glad  light  in  his  eyes  once  more. 

"Yes,  a  sunbeam !  I  am  not  afraid  to  repeat 
it.  A  sunbeam!  More  than  one!  Don't  you 
be  so  worked  up  about — ahem — us  going  to 
war.  There's  not  much  danger  if  you  don't 
fool  with  the  guns  more  than  you  have  tor 
We'll  get  back  all  right.  And,  about  Evelyn — 
Dave,  you  marry  her.  She  loves  you — that's 
as  plain  as  a  haystack.  You  love  her — that's 
as  plain  as  a  red  barn" — trying  to  be  funny. 
295 


.WAR 

Dave  got  almost  gay  again,  he  thought  me  so 
funny. 


'  'If  I  love  her 

As  she  loves  me, 
No  knife  can  cut  our  love  in  three!'  " 


he  sings — erroneously. 

"That  sounds  better,"  says  I.  "You  marry 
her.  She  needs  it — to  be  tamed.  No  woman  is 
tamed  till  she's  married.  Look  at  your  mother ! 
Why,  she  often  thanked  me  for  making  her 
meek.  And  you  got  a  way  of  taming  horses 
that'll  go  well  with  Evelyn.  First  the  spur, 
then  the  bit,  and,  when  she's  up  in  the  air,  the 
whip — hard.  That  tells  'em  who  is  master!" 

Just  to  cheer  him  up  a  little  more.  But  it 
is  not  much  use.  Down  into  the  dumps  he 
goes. 

He  was  quiet  again,  for  a  while,  and  the 
voices  outside  died  down.  Then,  all  changed, 
he  says : 

"That  was  nice  of  you — to  call  me  a  sun 
beam,  daddy — very  nice.  I'll  never  forget  it. 
296 


THE    COST— WHO    PAYS 

Don't  you.  A  sunbeam  in  a  dark  place,  you 
said.  A  dark  place !  I  might  have  been  worse, 
I  expect.  Do  you  think  it's  too  late  to  begin  to 
be  better  now?" 

"You  suit  me,"  I  answers,  "just  as  you  are 
— and  everybody  else,  I  expect.  It  would  spoil 
y<?u  to  be  better.  The  world  needs  just  such 
gay  fellows  as  you,  Davy,  to  counterbalance 
such  as  Jon  and  me." 

"Ah,  daddy,"  says  Dave,  "you're  a  flatterer 
— an  arrant  flatterer!  I'm  afraid  you  love  me. 
And  those  we  love — we  never  see  their  faults. 
We  just — love  'em!  And,  I  suppose,  that  is 
why  love  is  blind.  So  that  the  faults  mayn't 
outweigh  the  rest." 

He  turns  a  bit  toward  the  voices,  which  are 
only  a  murmur  now,  as  if  everything  was  set 
tled,  and  then  he  repeats : 

"No,  we  never  see  the  faults  of  those  we 
love.  We  just  love  'em!  Like  a  sunbeam  in 
a  dark  place !  Well,  daddy,  sunbeams  are  wel 
come  after  bad  weather.  But  how  soon  we 
forget  that  they  are  all  about  us  when  the  bad 
297 


.WAR 

Dave  got  almost  gay  again,  he  thought  me  so 
funny. 


'  'If  I  love  her 

As  she  loves  me, 
No  knife  can  cut  our  love  in  three!'  " 


he  sings — erroneously. 

"That  sounds  better,"  says  I.  "You  marry 
her.  She  needs  it — to  be  tamed.  No  woman  is 
tamed  till  she's  married.  Look  at  your  mother ! 
Why,  she  often  thanked  me  for  making  her 
meek.  And  you  got  a  way  of  taming  horses 
that'll  go  well  with  Evelyn.  First  the  spur, 
then  the  bit,  and,  when  she's  up  in  the  air,  the 
whip — hard.  That  tells  'em  who  is  master !" 

Just  to  cheer  him  up  a  little  more.  But  it 
is  not  much  use.  Down  into  the  dumps  he 
goes. 

He  was  quiet  again,  for  a  while,  and  the 
voices  outside  died  down.  Then,  all  changed, 
he  says : 

"That  was  nice  of  you — to  call  me  a  sun 
beam,  daddy — very  nice.  I'll  never  forget  it. 
206 


THE    COST— WHO    PAYS 

Don't  you.  A  sunbeam  in  a  dark  place,  you 
said.  A  dark  place !  I  might  have  been  worse, 
I  expect.  Do  you  think  it's  too  late  to  begin  to 
be  better  now  ?" 

"You  suit  me,"  I  answers,  "just  as  you  are 
— and  everybody  else,  I  expect.  It  would  spoil 
yeu  to  be  better.  The  world  needs  just  such 
gay  fellows  as  you,  Davy,  to  counterbalance 
such  as  Jon  and  me." 

"Ah,  daddy,"  says  Dave,  "you're  a  flatterer 
— an  arrant  flatterer!  I'm  afraid  you  love  me. 
And  those  we  love — we  never  see  their  faults. 
We  just — love  'em !  And,  I  suppose,  that  is 
why  love  is  blind.  So  that  the  faults  mayn't 
outweigh  the  rest." 

He  turns  a  bit  toward  the  voices,  which  are 
only  a  murmur  now,  as  if  everything  was  set 
tled,  and  then  he  repeats : 

"No,  we  never  see  the  faults  of  those  we 
love.  We  just  love  'em!  Like  a  sunbeam  in 
a  dark  place !  Well,  daddy,  sunbeams  are  wel 
come  after  bad  weather.  But  how  soon  we 
forget  that  they  are  all  about  us  when  the  bad 
297 


WAR 

weather  is  over!  And  so,  daddy,  dear,  for 
fear  that  you'll  forget  that  I  was  a  sunbeam 
once,  I  am  going  to  do  just  one  good  thing— 
the  only  good  thing  I  have  ever  done — the  best 
thing  I  have  ever  done,  the  first  best  thing,  a 
thing  you  won't  forget !  Did  you  ever  think 
that  I  could  make  a  sacrifice,  daddy?  Me, 
Dave?" 

"Well,  Davy,"  says  I,  "you've  had  about 
everything  you  asked  for,  and  you  haven't  paid 
heavy  for  it.  I  suppose  it's  our  fault — the  way 
we  brought  you  up.  But,  I  like  it  that  way  and 
I'm  willing  to  go  on." 

"I  never  did  yet !  I've  never  given  anything 
up!  Maybe  I  can't.  It's  a  fearful  thing  to 
learn !"  he  sort  of  whispers  to  himself.  "But  it 
must — it  must  be  rain  with  sunshine!  Tears 
with  smiles.  Things  won't  grow  else!" 

"What  does  tears  make  grow,  I'd  like  to 
know?"  I  asks. 

"Ah,  daddy!     What  do  tears  make  grow? 
Ask  me  when  you  see  me  again  and  I  can  tell 
you  that — to  the  last  terrible  item !    And  then 
298 


THE   COST— WHO    PAYS 

— oh,  daddy,  dear,  you'll  like  me  better  than 
ever !    Oh,  you'll  see  what  tears  make  grow !" 

It  was  all  hard  for  me  to  put  together,  but 
I  understand,  dimly,  that  this  boy,  born  for  joy, 
was  looking  out  upon  sorrow — something  he 
had  never  known  and  wasn't  fitted  for. 
'"Davy,"  I  says,  "stop  the  riddles  and  tell  me 
what  you  are  going  to  do.  The  times  are  out 
of  joint.  Don't  make  things  worse." 

"I  know  and  you'll  know — all  in  good  time, 
daddy,"  says  Dave,  very  thoughtful.  "The 
poor  rebels — poor  Johnny  rebs — sure  to  get 
licked — and  nothing  to  eat — nothing  to  wear — 
and  plenty  of  fighting — there's  not  much  fun 
in  that — you  must — forgive — a — poor  Johnny 
reb!" 

"Not  on  your  life!"  says  I,  hard  as  iron.  "I'll 
not  forgive  any  rebel.  This  old  roof  won't 
harbor  none.  Every  timber  in  it  was  cut  on 
free  soil  with  free  white  hands.  Every  nail  in 
it  means  Union.  And  all  of  'em  together 
means  fE  Pluribus  Unum!'  Any  rebel's  got  to 
get  from  under  mighty  quick." 
299 


WAR 

"But,  suppose  he  was  pressed  in?"  asks 
Dave.  "Every  day  there  are  men  pressed  into 
the  army  from  this  neighborhood,  some  of 
them  almost  as  good  as  we  are.  Suppose  he 
couldn't  help  it  ?" 

"Davy,"  says  I,  "you  been  away  and  you 
don't  know  the  news.  There's  no  one  pressed 
in  nowadays." 

"Yes,  there  is,  daddy,"  answers  Dave,  nice 
and  soft. 

"Well,  then,"  says  I,  a  little  angry,  "I  expect 
it's  me  that  don't  know  the  news.  I  haven't 
heard  of  it  hereabouts.  Anyhow,  this  house  re 
fused  to  shelter  Tories  in  the  Revolution,  but 
opened  all  its  doors  and  windows  to  General 
George  Washington;  and  do  you  think  I'll 
allow  the  same  walls  to  hide  a  rebel?" 

"General  George  Washington  was  a  rebel 
himself,"  says  Dave,  solemn  as  an  owl. 

Which,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  is  cer 
tainly  true. 

"Well,"  I  says,  a  little  confused,  "that  was 
different.  A  rebel  who  succeeds  in  his  rebellion 
it  not  a  rebel.  These  rebels  won't.  Washing- 
300 


THE    COST— WHO    PAYS 

ton  fought  for  freedom.    They  are  fighting  for 
slavery.    How  do  you  expect  'em  to  win?" 

"Anyhow,  daddy,  if  you  had  to  have  a 
rebel,"  says  Dave,  "you'd  rather  have  him  in 
a  butternut  uniform  than  a  blue  one?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  says  I,  "a  rebel  in  a 
ynion  uniform  is — well,  you  know  what  he 
is.  We  shoot  'em  on  sight." 

"Don't  they — if  it's  the  other  way  with  the 
uniform?"  asks  Dave. 

"I  expect  they  do,"  says  I,  "though  we  don't 
hear  much  of  their  doings." 

For  a  while  Dave  just  sits  there  and  smiles. 
Then  he  says  in  that  soft  way  he  had : 

"There  is  Evelyn  under  this  Union  roof !" 

"Oh,"  says  I,  "she's  a  woman  and  don't 
count — except  fool-talk  that  gets  others  crazy ! 
Is  that  what  you're  thinking  of?" 

"But,  daddy,  the  roof  will  always  give  her 
shelter?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  says  I.  "And  a  spanking 
now  and  then !" 

We  smiled  together,  and  then  Dave's  eyes 
fell  out  of  mine. 

301 


WAR 

After  some  silence  he  says : 

"Daddy,  you  ought  to  have  told  me !" 

"Told  you  what?"  I  asks. 

"That  Jon  loved—" 

"That  again !" 

He  sees  me  flare  up  and  comes  and  puts  his 
hand  over  my  mouth,  getting  on  his  feet  like 
an  old  man. 

"Sh!  Sh!  It's  not  too  late  to  make  things 
right — some  of  them.  Daddy,  I'm  sleepy! 
Don't  wake  me.  Let  me  lie  as  late  as  I  want. 
And  tired — yes,  actually  tired !  I've  done  noth 
ing  but  loaf  all  my  life — yet  I'm  tired.  I  never 
was  so  tired  since  I  was  born.  Now,  what  do 
you  think  of  that!  Well — good-by,  daddy." 

"Good-by?    You  mean  good  night,  not?" 

Dave  laughs  and  says : 

"I'm  thinking  of  morning  to-night." 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  says  I,  with  a  feeling  in  my 
breast.  "We  got  to  go  to-morrow !  And  early !" 

He  didn't  seem  to  be  thinking  of  that. 

"It  is  good  to  sleep  when  you  are  tired — so 
very  tired!  Mother!  I'm  thinking  of  my 
302 


THE    COST— WHO    PAYS 

mother  to-night!     I  never  knew  her,   did  I, 

daddy?" 

"No,"  says  I,  choking  up.    "But  Jon  did." 
"Yet  I  know,  too,  what  she  was — I  know  all 

about  her  to-night  for  the  first  time.  Now,  isn't 

that  queer?    And  I'm  glad.    There  are  only  a 

few  women  of  whom  we  can  say  that,  daddy, 
* 
dear.    Well,  it's  hard,  but  good-by!" 

He  had  reached  the  stairs,  and  standing  on 
them,  flung  me  a  kiss,  like  girls  do  to  each 
other,  half  gay,  half  sad.  He  looked  sorrow 
fully  down  at  me  a  long  time,  then  flung  an 
other.  I  can  see  him  now  as  I  close  my  old 
eyes !  Handsome  as  young  David  in  the  Bible, 
with  things  written  in  his  face  I  had  never 
seen  there  before.  And  a  strange  thought 
came  into  my  head — for  no  especial  reason — 
for,  I  have  admitted  my  dullness — Evelyn.  He 
had  said  to  her  that  day  he  came  home,  that  she 
might  teach  him  what  sorrow  was.  I  wondered 
if  it  was  beginning  now.  Whether  she  was 
concerned  in  my  son's  strange  mood. 

"Davy,"  I  says,  as  pleading  as  I  could,  just 

303 


WAR 

as  when  he  was  three  years  old,  "tell  your  anx 
ious  old  daddy  what's  the  matter — what  are 
you  going  to  do  ?"  and  held  out  my  arms — so. 

My  Dave  smiled,  almost  as  of  old,  hesitated 
a  little,  then  came  down  and  we  put  our  arms 
about  each  other  and  hugged,  just  like  when  he 
was  a  little  boy.  And  we  talked  nearly  as  we 
used  to  talk  then — baby  talk! 

"I  love  you,  daddy,"  Dave  said,  and  rubbed 
his  soft  cheek  close  against  mine — impulsive 
like. 

"I  love  you  more,  Davy,"  I  said. 

"You  can't  prove  it,"  laughs  Dave.    "I  can." 

"Let's  see  your  proof,"  says  I. 

"In  the  morning,"  says  he.  "And,  then,  tell 
Jon  about  to-night.  For,  we  both  love  him 
more!  I'll  prove  it  in  the  morning." 

We  just  held  each  other  a  while,  and  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes.  He  had  scared  me. 

"Davy,"  I  says,  "when  you  were  little  and 
we  talked  baby  talk,  you  told  me  everything. 
Don't  have  a  secret  from  me  now.     Why  are 
you  so  strange  ?    What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 
3°4 


THE    COST— WHO    PAYS 

He  whispers  in  my  ear : 

"I'm  going  without  Evelyn — leaving  her  to 
Jon!" 

"Going  where?" 

"To— bed." 

"Oh!"  I  says,  thinking  at  last,  I  sees  it  all. 
"Well,  that's  nice  of  you,  Davy.  You'll  have 
her  all  your  life.  This  is  Jon's  last  night  with 
her.  It  might  be  their  last  night  on  earth  to 
gether  !" 

"Stop  it!"  Dave  shrieks,  and  closes  my 
mouth.  But  then,  soon,  he  smiles  again. 
"Daddy,  we  both  feel  just  like  I  was  little  again 
to-night.  Let's  kiss  each  other — like  we  used 
to  then !" 

And  we  did — holding  each  other's  hands  a 
long  time.  Then  Dave  starts  up  the  stairs 
again.  He  stopped  two  or  three  steps  up  and 
sang  me  a  little  song — quite  like  the  old  Dave : 

"  '  'Tis  many  days  since  I  left  home, 
To  join  the  gallant  army — 
I  thought  but  of  my  country's  cause — 
And  the  girl  I  left  behind  me !'  ' 

305 


WAR 

He  flung  me  another  kisi,  then  two  or  three 
in  a  bunch,  and  went  away,  up  the  stair,  like  a 
man  of  eighty. 

He  had  put  but  a  few  steps  between  us.  But 
it  seemed,  even  then,  like  an  eternal  parting. 


XXXII 

ON  DAVE'S  BED 

0> 
k 

WHEN  Jon  came  in  we  held  a  con 
sultation  of  war  and  decided  that  we 
wouldn't  disturb  Dave.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  Jon  seemed  glad  not  to  have  Dave 
about.  And  he  had  a  wild  look  about  the  eyes 
that  I  had  never  seen  on  Jon. 

He  went  out  and  told  Evelyn  not  to  wait 
for  Dave,  that  he  had  gone  to  bed. 

"Yi— you  didn't  tell  him?"  I  heard  her 
shriek,  "You  didn't? — He  didn't  guess  it?" 

"He  had  gone  some  time  before  I  went  in," 
Jon  said.  "Come !  We  will  meet  in  the  morn 
ing!  Come." 

Jon  dragged  her  in  and  she  flew  off  to  bed 
like  a  troubled  spirit. 

"Come,  Jonthy,"  says  I,  "let's  sleep — if  we 

307 


WAR 

can.     Seems  to  me  that  we're  all  crazy  in  one 
way  or  another,  to-night." 

"Well,  daddy,"  says  Jon,  with  his  patient 
smile,  putting  his  arm  over  my  shoulders  and 
leading  me  off,  "we  are  all  suffering  from  to 
morrow  !" 

And  then  the  wildness  all  went  out  of  his 
eyes. 

"Daddy,"  says  Jon,  "could  you  hear  us  out 
there?"  He  motions  toward  the  trees.  "Some 
times  we  both  forgot  and  talked  pretty  loud." 

"I  heard  a  great  deal,  Jonthy,"  I  says,  "but 
I  can't  figure  out  what  it  was — yet." 

And  I  didn't — as  I  have  said,  much  of  what 
I  have  told  you  here — until  long,  long  after 
ward.  I  suppose  I  have  told  you  more  or  less 
as  it  should  run.  But  that  is  bad — and  you 
must  fix  it  for  yourself  a  bit.  It  took  years  of 
thinking  and  happening  for  some  of  the  things 
to  become  plain.  And  the  places  where  things 
fit  in  now  and  make  all  clear,  were  vacant  then, 
and  nothing  was  clear. 

308 


ON    DAVE'S    BED 

Jon  seemed  relieved  by  what  I  said,  and 
he  asks,  also : 

"Did  Dave  hear  anything?" 

"Not  much  more  than  I  did ;  his  ears  are  no 
better  than  mine,  I  expect,"  I  answers. 
"Though  he  behaved  funny,  and,  as  you  see, 
went  off  to  bed  without  saying  good  night  to 
you  and  Evelyn.  But  he's  so  sorry  about  us 
going  to  war.  He  was  at  the  open  window." 

Jon  is  scared  a  bit  about  that  and  asks: 

"Are  you  sure — sure  he  went  to  Toed?" 

"Sure,"  says  I. 

"What  did  he  say?"  asks  Jon,  still  more 
scared — and  more  and  more  as  he  went  on. 

I  told  him. 

"Why,  don't  you  see — don't  you  see  what 
that  means?"  yells  Jonathan.  "He  heard — 
heard  all." 

"No,  I  don't,"  says  I— and  I  didn't— then. 

"Come!"  he  says,  rushing  up  the  stairs,  "I 
want  to  see  whether  he's  in  bed.  I  must !" 

It  was  strange  that  Jon,  when  we  reached 
309 


Dave's  door,  stopped  first  to  listen  whether  he 
was  sleeping — just  like  when  he  was  a  baby — 
and  didn't  listen  at  Evelyn's  like  he  use'  to. 
Do  you  suppose  that  he  didn't  like  her  any 
more? 

But  he  wasn't  satisfied  with  what  he  heard — 
or  didn't  hear — at  Dave's  door.  He  beckoned 
me  to  listen,  too.  I  had  done  that  often;  but 
I  heard  nothing  now. 

"He's  not  there!"  says  Jon,  kind  of  crazy. 
"He's  gone  South." 

"Dave,  are  you  asleep?"  I  whispers.  "Are 
you  asleep?" 

"Sure!  Tight!"  laughs  Dave.  "Go  to  bed, 
you  loafers !" 

But  Jon  burst  the  door  open  like  mad  and 
stood  breathless  in  the  room,  looking  all  about 
for  something  he  didn't  see,  as  if  he  were  fac 
ing  something  awful. 

"I  thought — at  first — you  weren't  here — "  he 
gasps. 

But  Dave  only  laughs  and  pulls  us  both  down 
on  his  bed. 

310 


ON    DAVE'S    BED 

I  suppose  you  have  seen  the  bedroom  of 
some  such  shustle  as  our  Dave.  Everything  on 
the  floor — so's  you  had  to  step  careful  not  to 
damage  collars  and  cuffs  and  so  on. 

Well,  Jon  looks  all  about  among  these  things, 
like  he  was  hunting  for  some  sign,  though  he 
had  seen  Dave's  things  there  many  a  time. 
Anyhow,  he  didn't  find  what  he  was  looking 
for,  and  he  seemed  glad  of  it. 

"Dave,"  he  says,  "why  did  you  go  off  to 
bed  without  saying  good  night  to  Evelyn?" 

"Jealous,"  laughs  Dave.  "You're  rather 
nice,  Jonthy." 

"Honest?"  asks  Jon,  kind  of  glad. 

"Well,  wouldn't  you  go  off  to  bed  in  a  huff 
if  I'd  had  your  girl  out  under  the  trees  for  a 
couple  of  hours?"  says  Dave. 

"Yes — yes,  I  expect  I  would,"  says  Jon  soft 
and  nice.  "But  it  was  necessary — some  things 
about  the  farm  had  to  be  arranged  before  our 
going  away." 

"I  forgive  you,"  laughs  Dave.  "But  don't 
do  it  no  more.  You're  mighty  nice,  Jonthy." 

311 


WAR 

"I  won't,"  says  Jon,  solemn.  "And  will  you 
make  it  up  with  Evelyn  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning?" 

"Depends  on  who's  up  first,"  says  Dave. 
"Maybe  she'll  make  it  up  with  me." 

"Yes — yes,  of  course,"  says  Jon,  absent- 
minded.  "Dave,  you'll  marry  her — soon?" 

"Jon,  it's  the  lady  fixes  the  day,"  says  Dave. 
"I  have  tried  to  do  it — " 

"But,  you'll  stay  right  here — she'll  fix  the 
day — no  matter — married  or  not — and  see  that 
Evelyn  and  the  old  farm  are  taken  care  of.  I 
don't  think  daddy  and  I  will  be  away  over  a 
couple  of  weeks.  The  war  is  about  ended." 

"Look  here,"  says  Dave,  "if  you  don't  want 
any  sleep,  I  do.  It  would  please  me  very  much 
to  give  you  both  an  affectionate  good  night! 
To-morrow's  going  to  be  an  awful  day." 

"Yes,"  says  Jon — but  he  didn't  move.  Just 
sat  there  fascinated  like  a  snake,  never  taking 
his  eyes  off  of  Dave.  Dave  did  all  the  talking 
— or  rather  laughing — making  game  of  the 
war  and  soldier  business. 
312 


ON    DAVE'S    BED 

At  last  he  says : 

"Now,  good-by,  and  off  to  bed  with  you. 
The  war's  over.  I'll  see  you  both  back  here  in 
a  week.  Unless  you  get  a  telegram  to-morrow 
to  stay  at  home." 

But,  when  we  want  to  say  good-by  Dave  re- 
f  ifses  and  says : 

"In  the  morning — in  the  morning!  Don't 
forget!  In  the  morning.  It's  night  now.  Re 
member  the  morning!  And,  daddy,  you  tell 
Jonthy  about  the  sunbeam ! — In  the  morning." 

So,  laughing,  he  pushes  us  out  of  the  door. 

Just  as  it  closed  on  tis  I  thought  I  heard  that 
agony  of  Dave's  as  I  had  heard  it  down-stairs. 

And  Jon  must  have  heard  it,  too — or 
thought  so.  For  he  turns  and  grabs  the  knob 
to  go  in  again.  But  just  then  the  key  turns 
and  we  hears  Dave  laugh. 

"Now,  go  along,  will  you?" 

And  we  did — Jon  saying: 

"It's  hard  on  Dave — for  us  to  go.  Harder 
than  on  us." 


XXXIII 

TO  THE  FRONT 

THE  next  morning  we  got  up  early,  Jon 
and  I,  and  decided  not  to  disturb  Dave 
and  Evelyn.  It  was  too  hard  on  'em.  But  we 
listened  again  at  Dave's  door.  Jon  said  he 
heard  breathing.  I  didn't.  In  fact,  I  thought 
Jon  mistook  the  breathing  of  Evelyn,  next 
door,  for  that  of  Dave.  He  said  he  didn't  hear 
that. 

And  soon  everything  was  the  war  we  were 
going  to ! 

It  looked  really  like  war  on  the  Square  when 
we  were  assembled — that  is,  what  I  thought  up 
to  that  time  war  was.  There  were  new  uni 
forms,  glittering  swords  and  bayonets,  and 
enough  gold  lace  to  sink  a  ship.  I  suppose  even 
the  privates  might  have  had  as  much  gold  lace 
as  they  could  pay  for.  As  for  the  officers — 


TO    THE    FRONT 

they  looked  like  the  sun,  moon  and  stars,  all 
mixed  together.  And,  you  know,  Jonathan 
was  captain !  How  handsome  he  looked !  He 
wore  yeller  leggins,  red  baggy  britches,  a  little 
blue  jacket  with  the  gold  all  over  it,  a  red  cap 
with  a  long  white  tassel,  and  a  red  flannel  shirt' 
aft  embroidered.  He  carried  his  sword  in  a  big 
white  sash  around  his  waist. 

Most  of  the  uniforms  was  made  by  the  zou 
aves'  sweethearts  and  had  everything  but  ruffles 
on  'em.  But  we  hadn't  had  the  courage  to  ask 
Evelyn  to  make  ours — she  was  busy  enough 
with  her  own  clothes. 

Well,  we  all  stood  up  in  two  ranks,  that  way 
— straight  as  a  tape  line !  Jon  was  out  in  front, 
with  me  and  Kratz  and  three  or  four  lieuten 
ants,  and  so  on.  The  privates  was  mighty 
lonely,  sometimes,  amongst  all  us  officers,  I 
expect.  They  were  a  good  deal  scared  that 
they  might  call  some  one  sergeant  who  was 
lieutenant  and  get  court-martialed  and  shot. 
But  they  were  careful  and  it  never  occurred. 

Yes,  it  looked  like  war  that  morning!     At 
315 


least,  more  like  it  than  anything  I  had  seen  up 
to  that  time.  They  were,  mostly,  youngsters 
with  savage  apple-cheek  faces,  thinking  it  all 
a  grand  picnic.  And  yet,  God  help  us,  I  have 
seen  some  of  those  apple-cheeked  boys  come 
home  with  long  whiskers  and  hair,  pale  and 
thin,  on  three  legs,  two  of  them  wooden.  And 
some  I  have  seen  come  home  to  the  Dead 
March.  Some  haven't  come  yet ! 

There  is  a  poor  old  widow  down  the  road 
here,  whose  only  son,  just  cut  from  her  apron 
string,  stood  beside  me  that  Sunday  morning 
at  Chancellorsville,  looking  and  behaving  like 
a  play  soldier — just  a  red-cheeked,  tow-headed 
chap,  so  high!  She  had  told  me  to  watch  out 
for  him  and  bring  him  back  to  her,  that  he 
•was  all  she  had  to  offer  to  Father  Abraham. 
He  was  captain  by  then — for  gallantry.  Not 
in  zouave  uniform,  but  a  faded  one  that  might 
be  any  color.  Well,  the  artillery  opened  and 
we  were  ordered  forward.  He  went  in  at  the 
head  of  his  men,  his  little  blue  cap  on  the  point 
of  his  sword,  yelling  like  a  young  demon.  The 
316 


TO    THE    FRONT 

smoke  of  the  cannons  covered  him  from  my 
sight — and  I  haven't  seen  him  since.  The  poor 
old  widow  has  his  picture  in  the  zouave  uni 
form  always  by  her. 

It's  a  grown-up  baby — long  yellow  curls, 
dimples,  that  smile  the  photographer  puts  on 
yeu,  leaning  on  the  back  of  a  carved  chair,  with 
one  leg  across  the  other,  his  gun  in  the  hollow 
of  his  arm,  his  red  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
as  if  he  didn't  care  how  soon  they  called  on  him 
to  march  to  Richmond  and  put  a  stop  to  the 
war.  This  picture  is  all  painted  and  it  looks 
like  a  pretty  toy  soldier.  I'm  afraid  to  touch 
it  when  she  shows  it  to  me  for  fear  I'll  rumple 
him.  Well,  that  morning  at  Chancellorsville 
he  had  a  beard  of  yellow  whiskers  half  a  yard 
long,  hiding  the  dimples,  and  all  he  had  on 
wouldn't  have  made  the  ragman  any  richer. 
And,  every  now  and  then,  she  still  asks  me 
when  I  think  he'll  be  home !  You  see,  I  was  his 
keeper  because  I  was  older  and  wiser!  But  I 
suppose  he  was  really  wiser  than  I  was.  Come 
home !  That's  the  trouble  with  others.  Many ! 

317 


WAR 

Come  home!  It's  like  a  cannon  ball  in  my 
breast.  Why,  she  don't  seem  to  know,  like  we 
do,  that  it's  fifty  years !  Nor  that,  if  he  should 
come,  he  would  be  an  old  man.  She  thinks  of 
him  with  that  baby  face  and  dimples,  in  that 
zouave  uniform! 

Sometimes  I  shake  my  head  and  say: 
"Mother,  it's  a  long,  long  time !" 
But  that  doesn't  phase  her.     She  answers : 
"Yes.     But  he'll  come.     He's  a  good  boy. 
He  knows  I  am  waiting.     He  knows  he  is  all 
I  have.    So  I  keep  his  bed  ready  made  up,  and 
his  plate  at  the  table,  so  that  when  he  comes  it 
will  all  be  as  it  was — everything   ready   for 
him." 

Only  a  little  while  ago  she  took  to  her  bed. 
Then  a  little  interrogation-point  came  in  the 
dim  blue  eyes  when  she  asked  me.  And  the 
form  of  the  question  was : 

"Don't  you  think  he'll  soon  come?" 
No,  I  don't.     For  I  saw  him  disappear  close 
upon  the  enemy's  guns  that  Sunday  morning. 


TO    THE    FRONT 

And  it  breaks  my  heart — but  I  tell  her  yes! 
For  how  do  I  know — who,  also,  wait  ? 

Well — excuse  me! — it  was  a  flag  presented 
to  the  company,  and  a  sword  to  Jon;  both  of 
which  he  received  like  a  soldier — with  a  few 
words.  I  never  could  think  of  those  men  down 
in  Virginia,  both  Union  and  Confederate,  who 
made  long  speeches  and  "proclamations"  as 
real  fighting  soldiers. 

"For  the  flag,"  says  Jon,  up  on  a  store  box 
they  brought  him,  "I  thank  you,  friends,  more 
than  for  the  sword.  That  is  our  country.  I 
think  I  speak  for  every  man  behind  me  when 
I  say  that  we  shall  do  our  best  to  keep  it — 
and,  when  we  are  through  with  it,  bring  it  back 
to  you  as  it  goes  forth.  With  this  over  my 
head  I  feel,  for  the  first  time,  my  responsibility. 
As  to  this  sword — I  am  frank  to  say  that  I 
shudder  at  thinking  of  my  hand  driving  it 
through  the  living  body  of  a  fellow  man  and 
turning  him  into  a  corpse.  I  shall  honestly  try 
to  bring  it  back  unstained  with  blood.  It  is 
319 


.WAR 

our  brothers  we  are  fighting.     In  the  name  of 
my  company,  I  salute  and  thank  you." 

They  didn't  quite  like  that  speech.  Every 
one  else  had  talked  about  hurrying  to  dye 
their  flags  and  swords  with  blood.  But  here 
was  old  Jon  telling  them  that  he  wanted  to  keep 
them  from  the  stain  of  brothers'  blood.  I 
know  he  was  thinking  of  Tankoo.  So  was  I. 

However,  there  was  no  time  to  think  much. 
Jon  gave  the  word  to  fall  in — four  ranks — 
and  that  looked  so  much  like  going,  at  last, 
that  the  cheering  stopped,  and  after  a  silent  sol 
emn  moment  we  were  swamped  by  women. 
Every  man  had  at  least  one  woman  hanging  on 
him  and  crying — except  just  Jon  and  me. 

The  mothers  were  the  most  pitiful.  Mostly 
they  just  held  their  red-cheeked  boys  off  at 
arm's  length  and  filled  their  eyes,  as  if  they 
knew  it  might  be  the  last,  then  hugged  'em 
close. 

They   couldn't  get  the  women   out   of  the 
ranks  even  to  get  our  pictures  taken.     That's 
why  that  funny  picture  of  the  company  seems 
all  women  and  no  soldiers. 
320 


TO    THE    FRONT 

In  fact,  even  as  far  as  the  train,  you  could 
hardly  see  the  soldiers  for  the  women  running 
at  the  sides.  And  not  all  was  sad.  Some  was 
gay  and  foolish.  But  not  the  sweethearts  and 
wives  and  sisters  and  mothers!  Mostly  them 
that  had  no  one  in  the  company. 

f  pitied  Jon,  the  way  he  looked  toward  the 
farm,  and  wished  that  Dave  and  Evelyn  might 
wake  up  and  miss  us  and  come  to  give  us 
good-by  after  all.  I  had  the  feeling,  too,  that 
maybe,  we  mightn't  get  back — and  I  wanted 
to  see  Dave  and  Evelyn  once  more. 

Well,  wishing  makes  things  happen,  don't  it? 
By  hokey,  just  then  Evelyn  rushes  through  the 
crowd  and  right  up  and  flung  her  arms  round 
Jon.  Her  eyes  were  red  with  crying  and  she 
was  tired — half  dead — having  run  all  the  way 
in  from  the  farm — and  not  well  yet.  When 
she  got  her  breath  she  says : 

"Jon!  Dave's  gone!  The  black's  gone! 
My  uniform  is  gone!  Dave  knows!" 

Jon  seemed  turned  to  stone — and  it  was  as  if 
he  understood.  But  he  could  say  nothing,  not 
a  word. 


WAR 

"Jon,  do  you  hear?"  shrieks  Evelyn.  "The 
black  is  gone!  Dave's  gone!  My  uniform  is 
gone!  He  knows.  He's  gone — South!" 

"I — hear !"  says  Jonathan. 

"This  is  for  you — from  Dave's  room." 

She  handed  him  a  letter. 

"He's  done  just  what  you  said  he  would — 
gone  South  as  Mallory  to  save  us!" 

While  Jon  reads  the  letter  she  raves  on : 

"In  some  way  he  knows — he  knows  all. 
What  am  I  to  do — Jon,  what  am  I  to  do?" 

Jon  just  looked  at  her. 

"Jonthy,  help  me !  Help  a  sinner  to  stop  the 
consequences  of  her  sin." 

"Into  the  fire  goes  the  dross,  out  of  it  comes 
the  pure  gold,"  says  Jon  with  his  eyes  closed. 
"Through  sorrow  to  joy — always !" 

Jon  had  finished  reading  the  letter.  He 
stood  and  smiled  down  on  Evelyn.  The  leave- 
taking  was  still  going  on,  and  no  one  noticed 
Evelyn  and  the  captain  much. 

"How  beautiful  you  are  to-day!"  says  Jon. 


TO    THE    FRONT- 

"The  beauty  of  truth!  How  much  to  be  de 
sired.  This  is  our  Evelyn!" 

"I  want  you — I  ask  you — to  stay  with  me — 
at  home!  I  need — I  must  have  some  one — 
And  then — and  then — Dave  will  come  back. 
He  will  always  come  where  you  are,"  says  Eve 
lyn".  "But  he  will  never  again  come  where  I 
am — unless  you  are  there,  too.  And  then — 
oh,  and  then — I'll  keep  you  both !  Please  stay ! 
I'm  so  lonely!" 

Jon  pushed  the  hair  out  of  her  eyes  and 
looked  long  into  her  face. 

"It  is  too  late  for  that,  sister,  dear."  And 
he  points  to  his  men.  "Perhaps,  God  knows, 
that  is  His  punishment  upon  both  of  us — that 
I  must  say  and  you  must  hear — that  it  is  too 
late !  Too  late !  For,  in  the  great  light  which 
bursts  upon  me  now,  I  see  that  we  haven't 
played  fair  with  Dave.  He  should  have  known 
all  concerning  himself  that  we  knew.  We  are 
not  his  keepers.  He  is.  And  we  should  have 
left  him  to  judge.  Yes,  this  is  God's  own 

323 


.WAR 

punishment.  For  with  all  of  us  together,  with 
love  and  forbearance,  all — everything  was  pos 
sible — all  might  have  been  mended.  But,  now, 
with  hate  and  misunderstanding  between  us, 
and  separated  to  the  four  corners  of  the  world 
— don't  you  see  how  much  harder  God  has  let 
us  make  our  problem?" 

"I  see,  yes!"  whispers  Evelyn.  "I  see — I 
see  it  now!  Oh,  if  I  had  only  seen — guessed 
that  this  might  happen  before!  Yes,  it  is  too 
late!  All  is  too  late!  Jon,  before  you  return 
I  shall  die." 

And  nice  old  Jon,  seeing  her  agony,  stopped 
his  own  and  comforted  her. 

"But  it  is  not  too  late,  dear  sister,  for  much 
else  that  will  now  come  to  pass.  At  first  I  was 
shocked,  too.  But  now — I  believe  I'm  glad.  I 
was  not  meant  for  a  traitor.  I  see — I  see  so 
far  and  so  much  beyond !  This  was  meant  to 
be  as  it  is.  I  was  to  be  a  Union  soldier.  Let 
us  accept  it — and  follow  on  to  happiness." 

"Happiness?"  moans  Evelyn. 

"Happiness,"  says  Jon,  solemn.    "Don't  you 


TO   THE    FRONT 

see  that  this  was  the  only  way  to  ultimate 
happiness?  Dave  knows — yes,  now — but  in  a 
way  that  is  easily  capable  of  honorable  correc 
tion.  And  the  first  step  toward  happiness  is 
for  me  to  go,  precisely  where  I  am  going  to 
day — except  that  I  go  honestly — for  that  is 
toward  Dave.  It  is  fortunate  that  I  must 
Otherwise  when  you  ask  me  to  stay — ah !  If  I 
could  I  would.  But  these  men — And  you  must 
not  die,  but  live  and  hope  and  wait!  For  I 
am  going  now — not  to  fight — but  to  find  Dave 
for  you.  To  bring  him  home." 

For  a  moment  Evelyn  could  not  say  a  word 
— only  breathe  hard.  Then — 

"Yes,  go.    Hurry!" 

"Be  happy,"  nods  Jon.  "I  think  God  meant 
it  so.  God  does  work  in  a  mysterious — yes, 
and  beautiful — way  His  wonders  to  perform. 
Just  think !  All  this  sorrow,  probably,  that  one 
woman  may  be  made  perfect!  And  that  she 
might  be  my  dear  brother's  wife,  and  my  dear 
sister!  That  we  may  all  be,  finally,  together. 
For,  when  I  find  Dave,  and  let  him  understand 
325 


WAR 

all  and  ask  him  to  return  to  you — fetch  him — 
he  will  come — " 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!"  she  screams.  "Tell  him  to 
kill  me  for  my  wickedness — -but  to  let  me  die  in 
his  arms.  Hurry !  I'll  wait — alone  for  Dave ! 
Swear  that  you  will  find  him !  Not  only  search, 
but  find!" 

"I  swear,"  says  Jon,  kissing  his  new  sword. 
"Otherwise,  how  could  I  come  home  to  you? 
For,  now,  I  can  come  back  to  you,  too.  I  need 
not  slink  in  the  byways  of  the  world  among 
those  who  have  deserted  the  cause  they  swore 
to  die  for.  Doesn't  that  mean  something  to 
you?" 

"Yes,"  sobs  Evelyn. 

"Aren't  you  glad  that  I  can  go  for  the  coun 
try  Hove?" 

"Yes." 

"And  come  back"  to  you  a  soldier  of  the 
Union — no  matter  how  much  we  differ  about 
the  North  and  the  South?" 

"Yes." 

"Remember,  that  though  Dave  is  as  Union 
326 


TO    THE    FRONT 

as  I  am,  he  hasn't  enlisted  and  taken  the  oath, 
and  he  is  really  at  liberty  to  join  the  Confeder 
ate  side.  Nothing  can  be  said  about  it — except 
by  us,  who  know  that  it  isn't  honest — done 
only  for  you — only  for  blessed  you !" 

Another  long  silence.  Then  Jon's  soft  voice 
went  on — comforting: 

"But,  now,  for  the  very  last  moment  before 
we  move  on  to  the  front,  let  us  think  of  the 
home-coming!  For  the  war  is  almost  over. 
Why,  we  shall  soon  be  all  together  again !  And 
the  scars  of  the  war  will  heal,  and  we  will  all 
think  alike  before  long,  that  it  was  good  to  pre 
serve  this  Union !  And  you  and  Dave  will  be 
married !  Think  of  it !  There  will  be  little 
Daves  and  Evelyns  a-plenty!  And  we  shall 
laugh — laugh  at  all  we  suffer  to-day!  Now, 
let  me  go!  Send  me  forth  to  bring  back  our 
dear  Dave !  Smile !  Let  me  remember  that !" 

She  tried  to  do  that.  But  such  a  sad  old 
smile  I  never  saw  before. 

"God  bless  you!     And  give  him  this — and 
this — and  this  straight  from  my  lips !" 
327 


WAR 

She  kissed  Jon  three  times. 

I  have  seen  my  son  in  battle — wounded — de 
feated — retreating — victorious — but  I  have 
never  seen  him  as  worked  up  as  by  those  three 
kisses. 

Thank  God  the  train  whistled  for  us  just 
then.  We  were  late. 

That  was  too  much  for  poor  old  Jon.  He 
staggers  back  among  his  men,  muttering : 

"Attention !" 

Evelyn  followed  him. 

"The  letter,  Jon !    The  letter!" 

Jon  crushed  Dave's  letter,  and  putting  it  in 
his  shirt,  shakes  his  head  no. 

"Not  to  see  it?" 

"For  God's  sake,  go !"  says  Jon,  pushing  her 
out  of  the  ranks.  "When  I  come  back  and  all 
is  peace — then !" 

Then,  savage  as  a  bull  of  Bashan,  Jon 
cleared  the  women  out  and  double-quicked  us 
to  the  train.  There  were  no  officers  with  their 
swords  in  both  hands,  stepping  backward. 
There  was  no  "By-the-right-wheel,  Forward — 
328 


TO    THE    FRONT 

March !"  No  turning  like  the  spoke  of  a  wheel. 
There  was  no  spreading  out  all  over  the  street. 
There  was  no  left,  left,  left!  The  band  had  no 
time  to  finish  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me. 
We  raced  off  to  war  as  if  we  were  crazy  to  get 
there  and  the  devil  was  behind  us. 


XXXIV 

THE  PITY  OF  IT 

JON  tried  to  keep  his  word  to  Evelyn- 
poking  into  all  the  rebel  places  he  came  to 
— getting  into  no  end  of  trouble  and  danger- 
shot  at  and  missed — as  if  the  Lord  was  on  his 
side — inquiring  of  every  prisoner  he  met — but 
we  never  heard  anything  of  Dave — or  Mallory. 
I  was  discharged  before  my  time  was  up  be 
cause  of  the  loss  of  my  arm  at  Chancellorsville. 
Jon  stayed  in  "for  the  war".  But  really,  to  find 
Dave.  He  had  no  heart  for  the  fighting— 
though  when  he  fought  it  was  as  he  did  every 
thing  else;  like  a  man.  Yet  he  always  cried 
over  the  men  he  killed  and  wounded — both 
Union  and  Confederate.  And  he'd  send  such 
of  them  as  was  possible  home  all  packed  in 
flowers — if  it  was  summer  and  enough  could 
330 


THE    PITY   OF    IT 

be  found.     Sometimes  he'd  send  a  little  note 
in  the  coffin.    Often  it  was  nothing  more  than : 

"This  was  a  brave  man !" 

and  sign  his  name  and  regiment. 

And,  more  and  more,  as  he  saw  the  wonder 
ful"  armies  and  organization  of  the  Union,  the 
pouring  out  of  men  and  money  from  the  North, 
the  sure  and  steady  march  on  to  final  victory  in 
the  war,  did  my  old  Jon  want  to  stop  it.  Once 
I  heard  him  talk  to  a  young  officer  he  had  cap 
tured. 

"I'm  not  going  to  keep  you,"  he  says.  "You 
are  too  fine  a  boy  to  drag  your  life  out  at  Fort 
Warren." 

"Not  going  to  keep  me  ?"  says  the  youngster, 
rubbing  his  handsome  dark  eyes.  "Why,  suh, 
you  got  the  right  to.  You  took  me  inside  yo' 
lines.  I  don't  demand,  suh,  to  be  let  go." 

"I'm  going  to  let  you  go,  all  the  same,"  says 
Jon.  "Remember,  I  haven't  put  my  hands  on 
you  yet,  and,  therefore,  you  are  not  precisely 
my  prisoner.  In  a  moment  I  will  show  you  a 


WAR 

safe  way  out.     But,  do  you  mind  a  little  talk 
first?" 

"Why,  n — no,  suh,"  says  the  handsome 
young  rebel,  "though  you  Yankees  are  rather 
queer,  aren't  you? — to  let  a  man  go  who  has 
been  inside  your  lines  and  seen— 

"You  are  not  going  to  tell  what  you  have 
seen,"  says  Jon. 

"Why  am  I  not,  suh?"  says  the  rebel,  very 
haughty. 

"Because  you  are  a  gentleman — as  any  one 
can  see — as  most  of  you  are." 

"I  promise  nothin',  suh !"  says  the  captive. 

"Certainly  not,"  says  Jon.  "But — look  here, 
I  hope  you  will  not  go  back  to  the  army. 
Do  as  you  please,  of  course.  But  if  you  have 
a  mother  or  a  sister  or  a  sweetheart,  give  me 
your  parol,  voluntarily,  and  go  back  to  them. 
Every  man  killed  and  wounded  in  this  war 
from  now  on,  will  be  nothing  less  than  mur 
der—" 

"Why,  suh?"  demands  the  young  Confed 
erate. 

332 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

"Because,  from  now  on,  it  is  absolutely  cer 
tain  that  the  Union  will  win." 

"Excuse  me,  suh !"  says  the  soldier. 

"Why,  my  dear  boy,  we  have  twenty  men 
to  your  one  in  the  field  now  and  more  coming 
all  the  time.  We  have  a  thousand  dollars  to 
yotfr  one.  We  have  now  an  army  of  more  than 
a  million  of  seasoned  veterans  instead  of  the 
greenhorns  we  began  with.  We  have,  at  last, 
and  the  way  has  been  long  and  fearful,  found 
the  right  men  to  lead  the  armies." 

"Suh,"  said  the  young  soldier,  "right  is 
might  and  must  prevail." 

"My  boy,  even  if  you  are  right,  you  will  be 
crushed,  overwhelmed,  by  mere  weight,  if 
nothing  else.  And,  if  you  are  to  be  vanquished 
in  the  end,  why  net  stop  now  and  save  the  thou 
sands  upon  thousands  of  young  men  like  you 
who  will  yet  be  killed,  for  their  mothers  and 
wives  and  sweethearts?  Go.  Do  as  you  like. 
I  ask  no  promises.  But,  it  would  make  me 
mighty  glad  to  know  that  out  of  the  -slaughter 
which  must  yet  be  I  had  saved  a  fine  boy  like 
333 


WAR 

you  and  sent  him  back  to  his — waiting  moth 
er." 

"Suh,"  said  the  young  Confederate,  "I  have 
never  thought  of  it  like  that.  I  have  heard  no 
one  speak  of  it  like  that.  Suh,  let  me  say  that 
if  I  could,  I  would  do  just  what  you  ask — go 
home  to  my  mother,  sisters  and  sweetheart.  I 
have  all  of  'em.  I  am  tired  of  this  wall.  We 
get  on  too  slowly.  But  what  would  be  said  if 
I  should  go  home?  Not  a  friend  in  the  So'th 
would  ever  speak  to  me  again.  I  should  be 
ostracized.  A  leper.  Suh,  it  is  my  duty  to 
stand  by  my  comrades,  right  or  wrong,  until 
the  last  ditch  is  reached,  then  to  die  there. 
Wouldn't  you?" 

"No,"  shakes  old  Jon.  "I  would  go  home 
to-morrow  if  I  could,  no  matter  what  mis 
taken  fools  might  think.  But  you — I  see  and 
know  what  you  will  do  because  you  are  a  brave 
boy — and  I  am  sorry  for  it.  Good-by.  Per 
haps,  after  all,  a  time  may  come  when  you  will 
not  think  as  you  do  now,  but  as  I  do,  that  you 
will  be  serving  your  comrades  and  your  coun- 
334 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

try  best  by  doing  what  you  can  to  stop  a  strug 
gle,  useless,  and  deadly,  and  bloody.  Good- 
by." 

"Suh,"  said  the  youngster,  "I  didn't  know 
there  were  such  men  in  the  No'th.  If  the 
time  ever  comes  that  I  can,  with  honah,  do  as 
you  suggest,  I  will  do  so — and  thanks  to  you!" 

So  they  shook  hands  and  parted. 

As  for  me,  I  had  seen  enough  of  war  to  be 
glad  to  go  limping  home,  pale  and  sick,  a  neigh 
bor  on  each  side  of  me,  almost  as  sick  and  crip 
pled  as  I.  Ah,  there  was  nothing  in  war  as  glo 
rious  as  those  thrills  on  the  common,  and  that 
leaving,  on  the  Square !  I  used  to  imagine  that 
if  I  were  killed  or  wounded  the  band  would 
meet  me  at  the  depot  when  I  got  home,  and 
there  would  be  a  carriage  or  a  hearse  draped  in 
flags  and  filled  with  flowers.  Maybe  I  thought 
of  this  when  I  used  up  my  last  month's  wages 
sending  a  despatch  to  Simon  Corbin  and  John 
Alloway  telling  them  that  I  was  out  of  the  hos 
pital,  less  an  arm,  and  was  coming  home  honor 
ably  discharged. 

335 


WAR 

But  if  I  did  I  was  properly  punished.  There 
was  no  one  to  meet  me  but  Simon  and  John  and 
a  few  little  boys.  And,  though  we  went 
through  the  town,  three  war-cripples,  not  more 
than  a  half  dozen  people  came  to  their  doors 
and  looked  at  us.  One  or  two  came  and  shook 
hands. 

I  believe  I  was  disappointed.  I  had  taken  in 
all  the  glory-talk,  as  well  as  the  gratitude-no 
tion,  and  I  had  thought,  I  am  afraid,  that  I  was 
doing  something  noble :  first,  in  going  to  such 
a  dangerous  thing  as  war  for  my  country  and 
fellow  men ;  second,  in  losing  an  arm  for  them 
— a  material  part  of  my  body.  But  no  one 
seemed  to  care  very  much.  And  I  heard  no 
one  speak  of  courage,  patriotism,  or  gratitude. 
All  now  cursed  the  war. 

When  the  body  has  been  fed  too  much  of  one 
kind  of  food  it  becomes  indifferent  to  it.  Per 
haps  the  mind  of  our  people  had  been  fed  too 
greedily  upon  the  war.  And,  too,  maybe  there 
were  too  many  who  had  paid  more  dearly  than 
I  for  their  devotion.  Maybe,  there  were,  now, 
336 


so  few  left  behind  that  enthusiasm  was  impos 
sible. 

It  was  good  to  see  and  then  to  reach  the 
peaceful  battered  old  place  again,  and  to  put 
my  face  under  the  pump-spout  while  John  and 
Simon  pumped.  Even  though  the  farm  looked 
like  a  ruin !  It  had  not  been  long,  but  the  cat 
tle  and  horses  had  been  taken,  and  if  I  hadn't 
arranged  to  have  the  old  Jerry-horse  I  rode  in 
the  army,  sent  home  to  me,  I  wouldn't  have  had 
anything  to  pull  the  plow — even  though  there 
was  little  enough  to  plow. 

And,  worst  of  all,  Evelyn  was  gone — Betsy 
didn't  know  where — just  disappeared — like 
Dave.  Well,  I  didn't  know  the  old  house  was 
so  big,  nor  could  be  so  lonely.  Everybody  was 
gone,  there  seemed  nobody  about  even  the 
neighborhood.  I  sat  out  there  on  the  porch, 
where  I  could  see  some  one  going  by,  now  and 
then,  nearly  always. 

The  land  hadn't  been  farmed  since  I  went 
away.  No  crops  were  in  and  it  was  too  late  to 
put  any  in.  Anyhow,  what  could  I  do — with 
337 


WAR 

one  arm  and  one  cavalry  horse?  The  hireland 
had  been  drafted  and  shot  to  death  three  days 
after  being  mustered  in. 

That  was  what  the  war  meant  to  us — part  of 
it — only  a  small  part. 


XXXV 

HOME,    SWEET    HOME 

AD  so,  as  I  was  sitting  on  the  porch,  out 
there,  one  afternoon,  and  the  old  Jerry- 
horse  was  eating  grass  in  the  front  yard,  a 
couple  of  regiments  of  cavalry  came  up  the 
road,  just  beyond,  in  command  of  a  young 
colonel  in  a  faded  old  uniform.  When  he  got 
opposite  he  stopped  and  saluted  like  I  was  a 
major-general. 

"God-a-mighty !"  says  I,  putting  on  my 
glasses,  "you're  the  first  man  who's  acknowl 
edge  that  I  fought,  bled  and  died — nearly — for 
the  Union.  Who  are  you?  Wait!  I  want  to 
shake  hands !" 

I  salutes  and  runs  down  the  yard,  crazy  for 
the  Union  the  minute  I  sees  the  uniforms. 
When  I  got  near,  something,  mostly  the  smile, 
I  think,  reminded  me  a  little  of  Dave. 
339 


WAR 

"Who  are  you?"  I  yells.  "Not— God-a- 
mighty — not  at  last — Dave  ?" 

"No,"  says  the  young  officer,  "only  Jon." 

And  he  gets  down  and  hugs  me  and  cries 
over  my  empty  sleeve. 

"Where  do  you  come  from  ?  Where  are  you 
going?  Can't  yon  stay  for  dinner?"  I  asks 
altogether. 

"No,"  Jon  smiles.  "We  come  from  every 
where.  We're  pushing  on  to  Hooker  at  Get 
tysburg.  Orders  are  to  get  there  to-night. 
There's  likely  to  be  a  fight.  We  are  paralleling 
Lee.  As  you  know,  he's  on  the  way  to  Pennsyl 
vania.  After  the  fight  I'll  manage  to  get  a  lit 
tle  leave  and  come  back  for  the  dinner  and  a 
talk.  So,  daddy,  dear,  good-by." 

He  turns  to  get  on  his  horse.  I  holds  him 
fast. 

"What  about  Dave?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing,"  he  shakes,  and  gets  on  his  horse. 

"Wait,"  I  yells.  "I  can't  stand  this  from 
my  son — if  he  is  a  colonel.  I  must  talk.  God 
knows  I  don't  get  the  chance  often  now. 
340 


HOME,    SWEET    HOME 

Everybody's  in  the  war — or  dead.  I'll  ride 
along  a  mile  or  two." 

Jon  pulled  up  a  little,  and  I  jumped  on  the 
old  Jerry-horse,  just  back  from  the  mill,  and 
rode  with  Jon  right  out  in  front. 

Well,  it  was  like  old  times,  and  the  Jerry- 
horSe  spruced  up  and  pranced  along  as  if  he 
were  going  to  war  again.  He  understood,  the 
old  Jerry-horse  did. 

"Jon,"  I  says,  "get  me  a  saber." 

"Nonsense,"  laughs  Jonathan.  "What  do 
you  want  with  a  saber?  You're  incapaci 
tated." 

"Nothing,"  says  I,  "only  it  don't  seem  right 
without.  I  think  the  old  Jerry-horse  will  be 
have  better  if  he  feels  a  saber  on  his  ribs." 

But  the  truth  was  that  I  was  rambunctious 
— crazy  to  fight!  Now  what  do  you  think  of 
that! 

Jon  laughs  and  gets  me  a  saber. 

"Not  for  you,"  he  says,  "but  for  the  old 
Jerry-horse !" 

And,    in    fact,   the    horse   understood,    and 


WAR 

stopped  his  prancing  and  drew  long  breaths 
and  snorted  now  and  then,  as  if  there  was  a 
battle  near. 

As  we  went  on  down  the  road,  nearer  and 
nearer  to  Excelsior,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the 
rebels  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  war  had  dis 
appeared  and  all  were  now  Union.  For  the 
road  became  lined  with  people  who  wouldn't 
let  us  through  till  they  had  filled  up  our  haver 
sacks,  canteens  and  bellies — with  flowers  in 
our  buttonholes  and  hands.  Why,  they  brought 
hot  coffee  in  tubs !  There  were  bushel  baskets 
of  fresh  loaves!  And,  if  you've  never  been  a 
soldier  you  don't  know  what  the  smell  of  fresh 
bread  and  coffee  is!  Whisky  was  plenty,  too, 
and  cigars,  and  even  clothes!  Why,  any  man 
in  a  blue  uniform  had  only  to  ask  for  what  he 
wanted  to  get  it.  The  sentiment  was  all  for 
the  Union  now.  Jon  tried  to  keep  them  mov 
ing.  But  I  begged  to  let  'em  have  one  good 
time  in  their  lives. 

"If  there's  going  to  be  a  fight  to-morrow, 
342 


HOME,    SWEET    HOME 

Jonthy,"  says  I,  "God  knows  it  will  be  the  last 
good  time  for  some  of  them!" 

"Nevertheless,"  says  old  Jon,  in  the  way  I 
knew,  "I  can't  permit  this.    They  are  demoral 
izing- 
Just  about  then  a  hundred  girls  or  so,  all 
dressed  up,  joined  hands  across  the  road  right 
in  front  of  us. 
Jon  surrendered. 

Then  a  couple  hundred  more  gathered  there, 
right  in  the  road,  about  the  dearest  young  faces 
I  had  ever  seen,  and  began  to  sing. 

Annie  Laurie,  Her  Bright  Smile  Haunts  Me 
Still,  Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp!  All  Quiet  Along 
the  Potomac  To-night,  Home,  Sweet  Home! 

The  battered  soldiers  had  begun  by  singing 
out  of  tune  with  them — very  gay.  And  there 
was  much  tossing  of  flowers  to  and  fro  and 
laughing.  But  at  Home,  Sweet  Home  a  great 
silence  fell.  They  took  off  their  hats  and  let 
the  tears  roll  down  their  cheeks.  They  weren't 
much  like  the  apple-faced  boys,  these  bearded, 
343 


WAR 

bronzed  and  faded  soldiers.  They  were  from 
everywhere — Maine  to  Virginia.  But  they  all 
cried  at  Home,  Sweet  Homo.. 

Each  one  had  left  a  good  home — for  this! 

An  old  preacher,  in  a  long  rusty  coat,  got  up 
on  a  store  box  and  addressed  the  boys,  talked 
to  them,  nice,  just  a  little,  of  their  homes — 
and  what  was  in  them.  Then  he  prayed  and 
blessed  them  and  begged  God  to  end  the  war 
soon  and  to  save  them  all  for  their  homes. 

Suddenly  an  orderly  came  riding  up  to  Jon 
and  said  something. 

"Ladies,"  Jon  shouts  out,  "thank  you  for  all. 
But  clear  the  road  at  once.  There  is  work 
for  us.  When  we  return  you  may  sing  us  the 
victor's  paean.  Go  to  the  cellars." 

I  never  saw  such  quick  vanishment.  Then 
we  sees  that  we're  attacked  by  rebel  cavalry. 

"Forward!"  yells  Jon  to  the  men.  "Carry 
sabers!  Trot!  Gallop!  Charge!" 

But  before  we  got  well  started,  the  Johnnies 
burst  right  on  us,  in  front  and  both  flanks, 
from  behind  some  barns  and  houses,  cutting 
344 


HOME,    SWEET    HOME 

like  devils.  We  had  no  chance  at  all.  They 
were  dressed  in  the  Union  uniforms  stolen 
from  the  dead  at  Chancellorsville  and  we  didn't 
know,  in  our  surprise  at  seeing  men  in  Union 
clothes  cutting  us  down,  what  to  do.  But  Jon 
did.  He  never  lost  his  head  for  a  minute. 

He  ordered  the  retreat,  and  we  fought  our 
way  to  the  cover  of  houses  and  fences  and 
barns.  Finally  we  formed  and  rested.  There 
were  a  good  many  missing.  And  Jon — there 
was  a  dangerous  look  in  his  eyes  when  he  saw 
it.  The  rebels  had  posted  batteries  and  were 
shelling  us. 

"Boys,"  said  Jon,  quiet  as  a  deacon,  "I  re 
spect  an  honest  rebel.  But  these  are  dressed 
in  the  uniforms  of  our  dead  brothers.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  I  think  they  out 
number  us  five  or  ten  to  one." 

"Advance !"  they  yells,  to  a  man. 

And  Jon  ordered  it. 

Oh,  that  was  different !    You  know  how  you 
fight  when  you're  imposed  upon.     We  drove 
'em  like  cattle,   riding  them  down,  shooting 
345 


WAR 

them  in  the  back  or  front — no  matter  which. 
The  old  Jerry-horse,  needing  no  bridle  hand, 
behaved  like  a  trump.  He  thought  he  ought 
to  be  in  front — and  he  was.  But  this  Jon, 
beside  me,  was  still  another  incarnation  of 
my  boy — the  thing  that  war  makes  of  gentle 
men !  His  cap  was  off,  and  his  saber  was  the 
busiest  in  the  lot.  He  piloted  us  into  the  very 
hell  of  it — leading  himself  to  show  us  how! 

We  had  them  demoralized  and  on  the  run. 
The  road  was  nearly  impassable  with  dead 
men  and  horses  and  equipments.  But  we 
could  see,  off  to  the  right,  on  another  road, 
the  colonel  commanding,  trying  to  rally  some 
of  his  men  to  a  last  effort.  He  had  only  one 
arm,  like  me.  But  he  was  a  Trojan  at  making 
men  fight.  Well,  he  succeeded.  They  came  at 
our  flank  like  a  whirlwind.  But  Jon  had  been 
making  ready.  He  faced  us  right,  and  we 
counter-charged,  Jon  in  the  lead,  like  Lucifer 
himself,  outdistancing  the  Jerry-horse. 

But  the  Johnny  was  game.  He  gave  us  a 
carbine  volley  on  the  run  and  pushed  right 
346 


HOME,    SWEET    HOME 

into  us.  God!  I'll  never  forget  that  coming 
together!  Four  thousand  men  meeting  as 
hard  as  their  horses  could  run !  Those  behind 
piling  up  on  those  in  front,  heaps  of  shrieking 
men  and  plunging  horses,  and  every  man  at 
each  other's  throats,  men  firing  out  of  this  mass 
and' into  it!  Then  a  shell  fell  amongst  us  and 
stopped  all  for  a  second.  When  the  smoke 
cleared  we  could  see  the  rebel  colonel  pinned 
under  his  dead  horse,  but  firing  over  him  at 
Jon.  Corbin  and  I  dashed  on  to  capture  him 
— stop  him — firing,  too — and  then  we  saw  Jon 
crawl  over  the  dead  horse  to  the  rebel  colonel 
and  hold  up  his  battered  sword  to  stop  us. 
Just  then  the  rebel  shot  him.  I  jumped  down 
to  help  Jon,  and  found  him  calling  the  one- 
armed  colonel  Dave! 

He  worked  his  arm  around  Dave  and  kissed 
him  three  times,  talking  in  a  soft  joyous  voice. 

"She  gave  'em  to  me  to  give  to  you  when  I 
found  you.  And,  you  see,  I  have,  at  last,  ful 
filled  my  trust.  The  fight  is  all  gone  out  of  me 
now.  That  was  all  I  stayed  in  for — to  find 
347 


.WAR 

you.  I  have  hunted  you  so  long,  Dave.  For 
her,  Dave.  Didn't  you  know  it?  Didn't  you 
think  I  would?" 

Dave  said  nothing — only  dazed  and  dreamy. 
Jon  pushed  the  blood  out  of  his  face  and  looked 
at  Dave,  as  if  he  would  never  get  enough. 

"You're  not  badly  hurt,  Dave?  No;  of 
course  not.  Nor  am  I.  How  could  we  hurt 
each  other  within  a  mile  of  home?  Now  we'll 
go  back  to  Evelyn  and  fight  no  more.  Right 
here  the  war  ends  for  us.  If  some  one  would 
help  me  up  I  could  walk.  Corbin!  Daddy!" 

He  fainted  and  Dave  gave  him  some  water 
out  of  his  battered  canteen.  When  he  revived, 
Jon  says: 

"I'm  glad  you're  not  in  one  of  those  Chan- 
cellorsville  uniforms,  Dave." 

"I  ordered  that,"  says  Dave,  with  his  head 
in  his  hand. 

"You!"  says  Jon.  "I'll  never  believe  it. 
You'd  have  worn  one  yourself  if  you  had." 

"I  had  to  wear  this  one,"  says  Dave. 

"Why?"  says  Jon,  maybe  forgetting. 
348 


HOME,    SWEET    HOME 

"It  is  Evelyn's." 

"That's  right,  Davy,  that's  right,"  say  Jon. 
"You're  her  soldier." 

"I  am  her  soldier,"  says  Dave,  as  if  he  had 
no  pride  in  it. 

"Dave,  I'm  tired  of  war — very,  very  tired. 
I  wftnt  to  fish  with  you.  Come !" 

But  his  head  fell  over  on  Dave's  breast,  and 
Dave  caught  him  in  his  arm,  and  so  he  died. 


XXXVI 

AS   GRASS   OF   THE   FIELD 

HOW  hard  it  is  to  stop  a  fight— till  all 
are  put  out  in  some  way!  This  one 
went  on  without  leaders,  just  for  spite.  Only 
a  few  of  Jon's  and  Dave's  men,  mostly  wound 
ed  or  prisoners  of  each  other,  stood  around  us. 
We  were  almost  alone.  Both  Union  and  rebels 
took  their  hats  off  when  Jon  drooped  on  Dave's 
breast.  They  seemed  to  understand. 

For  a  minute  Dave  was  stunned.  He  saw 
nothing  but  Jon's  smiling  face,  the  eyes  open, 
looking  straight  at  him,  when  he  turned  it 
up.  Even  I  could  hardly  believe,  from  the 
looks,  that  my  boy  was  dead.  Dave  kept  strok 
ing  Jon's  long  light  hair  and  saying  crazy  baby 
things.  But  after  a  while  he  spoke  so's  I 
could  hear: 

"You're  not  hurt  badly,  are  you,  Jonthy? 

350 


AS    GRASS    OF    THE    FIELD 

Just  brace  up.  Dave  would  rather  die  a  thou 
sand  times  than  hurt  you.  You  see,  I  was  blind 
and  crazy  with  pain,  and  blood  in  my  eyes,  or 
I  would  have  known  you  as  you  crawled  over 
the  horse.  You  know  how  that  is,  being  a  sol 
dier,  and  a  better  and  braver  and  honester  one 
thjm  I.  When  you  have  pain  you  can  hardly 
stand,  and  blood  from  a  saber  cut  in  your  eyes, 
you  just  fire  at  anything  and  everything — just 
for  spite  and  hell  in  general.  And  we're  all 
black  as  niggers  with  powder.  Now  wake  up, 
Jonthy,  dear.  Dave's  your  prisoner,  and  he's 
glad  of  it.  But  you've  got  to  take  him  in. 
Then  he'll  nurse  you  well  of  the  wound  he  gave 
you.  My  God — to  think  of  me  shooting  you! 
Jonthy,  wake  up  and  tell  me  you  forgive  me !" 

Just  then,  as  if  Jon  really  heard,  the  eyes  fell 
shut,  and  the  nerveless  head  nestled  closer  to 
Dave,  and  bowed  a  little  as  if  in  assent.  And, 
also,  just  then,  Dave  pressed  his  face  down  to 
Jon's  and  knew  that  he  was  dead — and,  that  he 
had  killed  him! 

I  hope  I  shall  never  again  see  such  a  look  on 
351 


WAR 

a  man's  face  as  that  I  saw  on  the  face  of  my 
own  son  then. 

I  got  them  both.  No  one  objected.  All 
was  sorry  for  me.  And  when  we  took  sense 
less  Dave  up,  we  found  that  he  had  all  the 
time  been  pinned  by  the  legs  under  his  dead 
horse.  Neither  he  nor  any  one  else  had 
thought  of  the  pain  and  horror  of  that.  Jon 
I  laid  on  the  old  Jerry-horse,  and  Dave  on  Jon's 
horse.  Both  Jon's  and  Dave's  men  helped. 
There  was  no  North  nor  South  there  then,  but 
only  men.  And  it  showed  what  we  all  really 
were  in  distress.  Just  brothers.  It  was 
strange  how  they  all  seemed  to  understand. 

So  we  went  homeward,  slow  and  solemn, 
the  dead  and  wounded  all  about  us,  I  leading 
the  Jerry-horse,  Corbin  leading  Jon's.  The  bat 
tle  was  over.  I  don't  know  who  was  whipped. 
But  both  sides  opened  ranks  as  we  passed  and 
saluted.  The  choir  of  girls  was  out — yes,  as 
they  said  they  would  be — and  the  rusty  old 
preacher  at  their  head.  But  it  was  not  a  song 
of  victory  they  sang  as  we  passed,  but  that 
352 


AS    GRASS    OF   THE   FIELD 

same  old  thing,  Home,  Sweet  Home.  And 
all  formed  in  ranks  and  followed.  The  girls 
were  still  dressed  in  white,  and  had  green 
garlands  on  their  heads  and  pink  and  blue 
sashes  around  their  waists.  But  I  think  each 
dear  young  eye  in  those  hundreds  had  a  tear 
for  my  boys — and  maybe,  for  me.  The  rusty 
old  preacher  recited  the  services  for  the  dead. 

"Lord,"  he  said,  "thou  sayest,  truly,  that  we 
know  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth.  But 
an  hour  ago  these  young  brothers  were  lusty 
with  life.  Now  one  is  dead  by  the  other's 
hand.  And  that  one  maimed.  Truly  man  is 
like  the  beast  which  perisheth.  Man  is  like  to 
vanity.  He  cometh  forth  as  a  flower  and  is 
cut  down ;  he  fleeth  also  as  a  shadow,  and  con- 
tinueth  not." 

And  so  we  came  home. 


XXXVII 

THE    LETTER    DAVE    WROTE 

DAVE,  of  course,  was  a  prisoner.  But 
there  was  little  enough  guarding.  He 
seemed  out  of  his  mind.  He  said  almost  noth 
ing  to  me,  but  would  sit  with  his  head  in  his 
hands  and  look  at  me  till  I  got  creepy  and 
had  to  go  away.  And  then,  one  morning,  he 
was  missing. 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  but,  in  some  ways, 
I  was  glad.     I  could  hardly  bear  it.     Soon  I 
couldn't  have.    It  was  not  my  Dave.    It  was  a 
tortured,  warped  and  silent  spirit.     One  day 
I  said  that  we  were  only  one  man  between  us, 
just  in  fun,  because  we  had  only  two  arms  to 
gether.    He  didn't  seem  to  understand. 
"Where  did  you  lose  your  arm,  Dave?" 
He  looked  down  at  the  place  a  long  time, 
354 


THE   LETTER    DAVE    WROTE 

trying  to  recollect,  then  he  shakes  his  head, 
like  he  couldn't,  and  says : 

"I— don't— know." 

Wouldn't  you  know  where  you  lost  your 
arm? 

"Davy,"  I  says  again,  "does  it  hurt  at  the 
wpund  in  your  head  ?" 

"Am  I  wounded  in  the  head  ?"  asks  he. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "the  day  that— Jon  died." 

Dave  nods  and  puts  his  hand  to  his  head 
then,  as  if  he  really  remembered. 

"The  — day  — I  killed— Jonathan!"  he 
breathes,  looking  straight  away  at  nothing  at 
all.  "My  brother — Jonathan !" 

Suddenly  he  starts  up  and  hunts  for  his  ac 
coutrements. 

"I  must  go.  She's  coming.  Did  you  hear 
her  singing?" 

"Who?"  asks  I.  "I  hear  no  singing.   Who?" 

He  didn't  tell  me  who,  but  stops  listening 
and  sits  down  again. 

"I  always  think  I  hear  her  coming.  Even  in 
355 


.WAR 

battle  I  turn  my  head  often,  expecting  to  see 
her,  thinking  I  hear  her.    I  am  always  ready." 

"Ready  for  what?"  asks  I. 

"To  fire,"  says  Dave. 

"On  her — whoever  it  is?" 

"Yes.  I  must  kill  her  when  she  comes.  She 
killed  Jon.  She  made  a  traitor  of  me.  She 
must  do  no  more  harm.  I  mustn't  kill  her  here. 
No,  there  must  not  be  two  deaths  on  you, 
daddy.  Maybe  I  couldn't — here!  But  I  must 
— I  will — kill  her.  She's  a  murderer." 

That  night  he  disappeared. 

The  letter  Jon  got  that  day,  on  the  Square, 
from  Dave,  was  in  Jonathan's  pocket  when  he 
died — all  black  and  ragged,  but  in  Dave's  big 
handwriting — easy  to  read — very  easy  to  read. 
Evelyn's  got  it  in  a  little  ivory  box  up-stairs — 
all  alone.  But  we've  read  it  so  often,  with  so 
many  tears,  that  I  know  it  by  heart — every 
word.  It  is  the  last  testament  of  Jon  and  Dave 
together.  For,  as  you  will  remember,  after 
that  they  met  but  once — just  long  enough  for 
one  to  shoot  the  other. 
356 


THE   LETTER   DAVE    WROTE 

"DEAR  OLD  JONTHY  : 

"I  heard  you  out  under  the  trees.  Don't 
you  go.  I  am  going  as  Mallory.  If  I'm  to  be 
'saved'  I'd  rather  save  myself — and  thank  my 
self  for  it.  I  won't  do  any  more  harm  down 
there  than  I  have  to  do  to  fill  Evelyn's  contract. 
Now,  then,  Jonthy,  dear,  she  must  love  you. 
And  you  must  marry  her.  Why,  if  I  should 
he^r,  some  day,  that  you  were  married,  I'd  go 
crazy  with  joy — so  maybe  you  better  not  if 
you  don't  want  a  crazy  brother.  And  if,  fur 
ther,  I  should  hear — and  I  shall  hear  every 
thing  that  goes  on! — that  there  were  a  lot  of 
lovely  little  dark-eyed  Vonners  running  about 
the  old  place — the  more  the  better — I  should 
go  more  crazy — so  perhaps  you'd  better  not — 
unless  you  want  a  double-crazy  brother.  Any 
how,  I  shall  never  come  back.  Honest,  Jonthy, 
I  couldn't  after  this.  Could  I?  Would  you? 
And  the  minute  I  am  out  of  sight  I'll  give  up 
the  dear  old  name.  Maybe  you'll  hear  of  the 
prodigious  deeds  of  Lucas  Mallory  some  day. 
I  wish  you  wouldn't  go.  But,  if  you  must,  go 
for  your  country,  and  for  no  woman — even 
Evelyn.  Fight  under  the  glorious  old  stars 
and  stripes!  Bring  back  honor  enough  to 
cover  up  the  dishonor  I  shall  bring — if  they 
find  out  who  I  am.  And  then,  for  God's  sake, 
come  back  safe.  Evelyn  needs  you.  Make  her 
keep  out  of  the  spy  business.  Hoop  la !  It  is 


WAR 

done.  It  can  not  be  undone.  Jonthy,  don't 
let  it  be  in  vain!  Marry  her.  Beat  her  into 
it  if  there's  no  other  way.  I  would. 

"Jonthy — about  Evelyn  a  little  more — I 
didn't  know  that  there  had  been  anything  be 
tween  you  till  I  heard  you  to-night.  Dear  broth 
er,  even  though  it  was  all  for  me,  it  wasn't 
right.  You  let  me  go  about  loading  the  agony 
on  you  day  by  day.  I  didn't  see  a  thing  then. 
I  see  it  all — all  now !  And  I  have  that  to  think 
of  to  the  end  of  my  days.  We  have  never  lied 
to  each  other — and  you'll  believe  me  now.  If 
I  had  known —  But  what's  the  use?  It's  too 
late  for  that.  I  made  her  love  me — just  car 
ried  her  off  of  her  feet.  Otherwise,  she  would 
have  kept  on  loving  you.  No,  no,  no !  That 
would  be  the  first  lie  between  us,  and  it  shall 
not  be — even  for  Evelyn.  And  it  will  not 
make  things  easier.  But,  Jon,  I  didn't  know. 
That's  the  only  thing  I  can  say — both  at  begin 
ning  and  end. 

"This  is  the  longest  and  most  mixed  letter 
I  ever  wrote,  Jonthy,  dear.  And  it  makes  my 
head  and  heart  tired.  But,  just  at  the  last,  a 
word  about  the  fishing.  Somehow,  when  I 
think  of  that  I  am  not  tired  any  more.  And 
it  seems  like  you'd  forgive  me  and  smile  again 
— if  we  could  only  go  fishing!  Think  of  the 
fishing,  Jonthy,  when  you  read  this.  And  a 
little  chap  riding  on  your  back,  his  arms  close 
about  your  neck,  you  holding  his  little  fat  legs 
358 


THE   LETTER    DAVE    WROTE 

under  your  arms,  harder  and  harder  as  you  go 
from  a  trot  into  a  gallop!  I  wouldn't  have 
harmed  you  then  for  the  universe.  And,  be 
lieve  me,  brother,  I  would  no  more  do  it  now. 
An  hour  ago  that  time  seemed  a  long  way  back. 
Now,  it's  right  here,  and  I  am  smiling  as  I 
write  of  it.  Smile,  Jon!  Think  of  the  fishing! 
You  catching  them  all.  Me  bothering.  Are 
you  doing  it?  Smiling?  I  know  you  are. 
And  that's  the  best  time  to  say  farewell — for 
ever  and  forever  farewell!  I  love  you  like  a 
brother.  There  is  no  greater  love.  I  kiss  your 
faithful  feet! 

"DAVE. 

"P.  S.    Two  o'clock,  A.  M. 

"Jonthy,  dear,  it's  awful  hard  to  go.  I  am 
shivering.  It  is  ninety  degrees  below  zero 
with  me.  But,  at  last,  I'm  in  Evelyn's  uni 
form.  It  fits  me — a  little  tight.  I  stole  it 
when  I  came  up-stairs  to  bed.  There's  a  stain 
of  blood  on  the  right  side.  Her  blood.  Part 
of  her.  I  shall  wear  that  until — what?  I 
wonder  what?  Please  marry  her,  Jonthy. 
Don't  you  wish  we  were  little  again?  And 
slept  together  in  the  trundle  bed?  And  there 
were  no  beautiful  Southern  Evelyns?  And  we 
could  go  fishing?  And  didn't  have  to  go  to 
war — shivering  ? 

"LITTLE  FAT  DAVE. 

"Ha,  ha!    Laugh,  Jonthy,  dear. 
359 


WAR 

"P.  S.  S.    Three  o'clock: 
"I  am  distressed  for  thee,  my  brother  Jona 
than  : 

Very  pleasant  hast  thou  been  unto  me : 
Thy  love  to  me  was  wonderful — 
Passing  the  love  of  women. 


"How  are  the  mighty  fallen ! 
And  the  weapons  of  war  perished ! 

"DAVID." 

And  his  Bible  was  open  and  turned  down  on 
the  letter  at  the  story  of  David  and  Jonathan 
and  how  Jonathan  saved  David  and  was  killed 
himself. 


XXXVIII 

PEACE 

ONE  day,  after  the  war  was  over,  I  was 
sitting  alone  here,  in  the  afternoon  sun, 
when  a  woman,  dressed  like  a  nun,  came,  slow 
and  solemn,  up  the  yard.  She  hung  her  head 
until  she  got  close  to  me,  then  she  put  it  down 
on  my  old  knees  and  cried.  It  was  Evelyn. 

For  a  long  time  we  said  nothing.  We 
couldn't.  Then  I  asked  her: 

"Where  have  you  been,  Evelyn  ?" 

"In  hospitals — Union  hospitals — rebel  hos 
pitals.  Helping  to  heal  the  wounds  I  made — 
and  such  as  I.  Searching  for  Dave." 

"Have  you  come  to  stay  with  me,  once 
more?"  I  asks. 

"As  long  as  we  live,"  says  she,  "if  you  will 
have  me." 


WAR 

"Have  you!"  says  I,  putting  my  one  arm 
around  her. 

"I  wasn't  sure,"  she  says.  "If  you  had  done 
to  me  and  mine  what  I  have  done  to  you  and 
yours,  I  wonder  whether  I  would  forgive 
you?'" 

"Yes,  you  would,"  says  I. 

"And,  maybe,"  she  says,  after  a  while,  "he 
will  come  back  to  you.  Then  I  shall  be  here. 
I  know  now  that  he  will  never  come  to  me." 

"No,"  I  says,  "he  will  never  come  to  you/' 
and  I  hands  her  the  letter  to  read. 

She's  coming  up  the  yard  now.  See!  She 
has  red  and  white  roses  in  her  hands — from 
Jon's  hotbed  behind  the  barn  where  her  wed 
ding  flowers  were  to  grow !  She  wears  the 
red  roses — just  as  she  did  that  last  night,  for 
Dave.  The  white  ones  are  for  Jon.  She's  just 
put  some  on  his  grave.  She  does  it  early  every 
morning.  I  call  her  my  angel  of  the  blue  and 
the  gray.  She  calls  me  her  two  lovers  of  the 
gray  and  the  blue.  She  says  I  must  love  her 
as  much  as  they  both  did.  But  I  say  that  she's 
362 


PEACE 

my  two  boys,  and  that  she  must  love  me  as 
much  as  they  both  did. 

Just  in  fun — all  just  in  fun ! 

It's  a  long  time  we  have  waited  together. 
And  all  the  sorrows  of  the  war  seem  healed 
except  ours.  He  ought  to  come.  He  ought 
to,  hurry.  He  is  a  brave  and  generous  boy. 
So  he  must  give  Evelyn  a  chance  to  say  she's 
sorry.  That's  all  she  lives  for.  Then — I  don't 
know  what! 

But  he  mustn't  kill  her,  like  he  said,  when 
he  comes,  only  put  his  arms  around  her  and 
kiss  her — kiss  her  till  she's  tired  of  kissing — if 
there  is  such  a  thing.  And  sing  a  funny  little 
song — and  laugh,  and  dance  a  hoe-down — like 
when  they  came  back  from  the  riding.  And 
he  must  take  her  fishing  and  let  her  ketch  some 
of  the  fish.  He  must  forget  and  forgive.  We 
mustn't  be  the  only  ones  the  war  leaves  deso 
late. 

Yes,  see,  she's  coming  up  the  yard.  She's 
been  to  Jonthy's  grave.  Coming  with  the  sun 
in  her  face,  and  happy! 


XXXIX 

AFTER   THE   STORY 

THIS  is  the  story  which  beautiful  old 
Stephen  Vonner  told  me  in  his  apple- 
orchard  one  night  in  June.  We  sat  under  a 
low-boughed  tree  whose  blossoms  filtered  lov 
ingly  down  upon  us  all  the  long  night.  For  the 
story  began  while  the  setting  sun  still  glowed  in 
our  faces  and  went  on  through  the  nesting  of 
the  birds,  the  sleep-song  of  the  cicadas,  the 
amazing  night-stillness;  while  the  constella 
tions  reeled  above  and  the  serried  Milky  Way 
marched  past ;  until  the  full  moon  rose,  saying : 
"Lo,  I  have  looked  upon  wo  for  a  million 
years !  And  it  passes — always  it  passes.  Have 
peace!"  Until  the  risen  sun  peered,  again, 
upon  us  through  the  dewy  boughs,  repeating 
its  promise  of  a  new  day. 

And,  all  these  things  of  nature  were  appa- 
364 


AFTER    THE    STORY 

nages  of  the  human  story — the  sympathetic  ac 
companiment,  if  you  like. 

Then,  when  the  sun  was  fully  risen,  Homeric 
Stephen  Vonner  lay  his  one  arm  upon  the  rude 
table  where  we  sat,  and  his  mighty  tired  head 
upon  it,  and  slept — as,  I  think,  he  had  not  slept 
for  long.  For,  his  heart  was  shriven. 

And  I,  who  had  come  long  miles,  from  a 
city,  to  hear  his  simple  tale,  rose  softly  and 
went  my  way,  leaving  him  in  the  peace  of  God 
and  his  own  dear  land. 

For,  the  pity  of  it  all  was  strong  upon  me. 

I  walked  beside  a  barely  practicable  road, 
upon  wonderful  moss,  under  thick-girthed, 
aromatic  oaks  whose  branches  met  my  bared 
and  moody  head. 

It  was  haying  time  and  the  air  was  full  of 
the  fragrance  of  the  new  hay  and  all  was  green 
— save  where  the  fields  of  yellowing  grain 
stood  out,  laughing  and  happy,  proclaiming 
their  sovereignty  of  the  land. 

The  hum  of  a  mower  reached  me,  and  the 
happy  laughter  of  the  makers  of  hay — a  song! 
365 


WAR 

And,  as  I  passed  into  the  day,  there  came  to 
sight  a  pasture  with  kindly-eyed,  ruminating 
kine  deep  in  a  stream,  under  that  shadow  of 
mighty  trees. 

Indeed,  one  of  the  intense  beauties  of  this 
land  was  these  islands  of  great  trees  standing 
out  from  the  grain  and  clover  and  timothy, 
webbed  in  gray  "snake"  fencing. 

Then  I  saw,  coming  toward  me,  a  woman. 

She  might  have  been  younger  than  fifty. 
Tall  she  was,  with  wonderful  dark  hair  and  an 
imperial  figure.  She  carried  in  her  arms  a 
great  burden  of  roses — some  red,  some  white. 
Her  head  was  bare. 

Here  everything  was  attuned  to  the  great 
harmony,  Peace.  And,  into  this  peace,  nothing 
fitted  more  perfectly  than  this  woman. 

She  had  seen  me  before  I  saw  her;  yet  there 
was  no  change  in  gait  or  expression.  I  might 
be  a  passer-by  upon  whom  she  would  look  this 
once  and  never  more.  Peace  indeed ! 

Said  I  to  the  woman : 

"Are  you  the  Evelyn  of  the  story?" 
366 


AFTER   THE    STORY 

"Yes,"  she  smiled. 

For  the  youthful  name  must  have  sounded 
odd  on  my  alien  lips. 

"You  will  print  it?"  she  asked. 
"Every  word,"  said  I. 
"Then— maybe?" 

But  was  there  an  interrogation  in  the  soft 

<f> 

dark  eyes?  Was  it  possible  that  before  me  she 
laid  down  her  cross  and  would  take  it  up  again 
only  when  she  reached  Vonner?  Was  it  cer 
tainty  to  him  and  uncertainty  to  me?  For  the 
sin  of  loving  too  well  was  this  her  endless  pen 
ance?  I  would  not  be  a  party  to  the  interro 
gation.  I  took  the  soft  old  hand ;  I  gazed  into 
the  velvety  eyes ;  I  said : 

"There  must  be  no  'maybe'." 

"No,"  she  nodded  humbly,  with  bowed  head, 
"that  was  wrong." 

Yet,  within  me  that  conscience  which  doth 
make  cowards  of  all — but  the  women  who 
wait,  was  crying: 

"It  is  fifty  years!  Dave,  if  alive,  is  an  old, 
old  man!  Evelyn  is  an  old  woman!  Age  can 
367 


WAR 

not  love!  If  Dave  were  alive  and  had  a  mind 
to  return  he  must  have  done  so  long  ago!  If 
one  loves  does  one  stay  away?" 

"Why,"  she  was  smiling  while  I  was  com 
pounding  treason,  "we  have  done  everything 
else  to  get  word  to  him,  but,  strangely  enough, 
have  never  thought  of  printing  his  story  and 
sending  it  into  every  corner  of  the  earth.  I 
think  God  himself  sent  you  here  to-day  to  put 
even  greater  peace,  and  more  hope  into  our 
hearts." 

"I  trust  so,"  said  I  cravenly. 

"Perhaps  God  thinks  we  have  expiated  our 
sins,"  the  woman  went  on  joyously  now,  "and 
is  ready  with  our  reward.  For  we  have  waited 
fifty  years !  Fifty  long,  long  years !" 

Her  voice  broke  and  there  was  silence  be 
tween  us  for  a  space. 

Vonner's  voice  had  been  soft  with  the  Ger 
man  of  his  ancestors.  But  Evelyn's  caressed 
with  the  elisions  of  the  South — which  alien 
tongues  could  never  quell.  I  fell  to  the  won- 
368 


AFTER    THE    STORY 

derful  voice.  But,  presently,  my  conscience 
would  not  and  rose  in  revolt.  Almost  without 
my  willing,  it  uttered  a  grim  warning : 

"Do  not  forget  the  years,"  said  I.  "Dave 
would  be  seventy  if  he  should  come  back." 

But,  instantly,  when  I  had  choked  down  con 
science,  I  was  glad  that  my  saying  had  not 
hurt  her.  It  meant  nothing  to  love  like  hers. 

"And,  do  men  cease  to  love  and  forgive  at 
seventy?"  asked  the  gentle  voice.  "Women 
don't.  I  do  not,  and  I  am  nearly  seventy." 

She  said  it  with  a  wonderful  smile,  while  her 
nostrils  quivered  and  her  face  was  lighted  with 
the  eternal  passion. 

What  man  can  know  a  woman's  waiting! 
What  man  can  know  a  woman's  loving! 

And,  so,  that  conscience,  which,  veined  with 
reason,  had  uttered  its  stern  warning,  now 
weakly  hastened  to  reverse  itself  and  lend  hope 
and  comfort  to  the  amazing  love  and  waiting. 

For  the  moment  I  was  ashamed  of  my  con 
science.    I  felt  like  bidding  it  stand  fast.    I. 
369 


WAR 

"Be  not  afraid,  he  will  come  for  this  for 
giveness  you  are  sending  to  him  through  all  the 
world !" 

But,  inside  of  me,  to  use  one  of  Vonner's 
thoughts,  conscience  was  again  saying : 

"If  not  here  in  another — and,  God  knows ! — 
perhaps  a  better  world — for  such  as  you  and 
Jon  and  Dave !" 

"Yes!"  she  said  now. 

And  I,  too,  now  said  yes! 

I  over-argued. 

"Love  is  immortal,"  I  urged.  "There  are 
no  years  for  you  and  him." 

A  sudden  flush,  as  of  youth,  overspread  the 
cheek  and  throat  of  Evelyn.  She  nodded 
quickly,  as  a  young  girl  might.  Then,  indeed, 
I  believed  my  own  saying!  She  did.  The  in 
terrogation  was  gone  from  her  eyes.  I  was 
glad. 

"I  kno^v  he  will  yet  come,"  she  said  now, 
very  quietly,  while  the  years  rolled  from  her. 
"Please  come  back.     You  must  say  good-by 
among  the  blossoms.    It  is  better  luck." 
370 


AFTER    THE    STORY 

I  did. 

Evelyn  lifted  the  beautiful  head  of  the  old 
man  to  her  arms,  and  putting  back  the  abun 
dant  hair,  kissed  the  closed  eyes.  They  did 
not  open. 

"He  is  very  sleepy,"  she  smiled.  "I  reckon 
we  will  let  him  rest  here.  Sleep  is  good — no 

& 

matter  where   we   get  it  or  how.      Let   him 
sleep." 

She  replaced  the  old  head  on  its  arm  upon 
the  table,  and  set  me  forth,  once  more,  upon 
my  way — a  happier  way,  now. 


And  now,  Dave,  if  you  still  live,  and  this 
reaches  you,  come  home ! 

If  you  are  dead  and  those  live  who  know  it, 
send  no  message! 

It  is  better  so.    Far,  far  better  so. 


THE  END 


A     000073156     2 


